“We left early Saturday morning and were in the Smokies (ironic, huh?
) well before noon. The cabin that we were staying in was the same
one we had been renting as long as I could remember. It was pretty
old and musty but at the same time every inch was familiar and
friendly. A little stream meandered no more than ten feet from the
door on its way to the lake which was just out of sight over the
knoll. Even though our parking spot was some distance away, mom
pulled the car up between the stream and the cabin to make unloading
easier. It did. Five minutes later she’d moved the car back to its
assigned spot, all of our stuff already inside.
Even though I was almost exclusively an afternoon smoker, the urge
already seemed gargantuan by the time we arrived. The fact that I’d
been thinking about practically nothing else all the way up, I’m sure
didn’t help. This picnic was not going to be any picnic. No matter
what my earlier commitments had been, it was painfully clear that I
would not survive the weekend without a confession or frequent walks
in the woods. Even those walks would demand cigarettes not yet
pilfered, a more challenging task in such close quarters. As soon as
we finished unpacking, a decision would have to be reached.
While I had been daydreaming, mom had already begun the task of
getting organized. She took the small bedroom and the couch in the
main room would be mine. Nothing new there. She’d even already
stuffed my clothes into the makeshift end table, bookcase, and
dresser combo. The only thing remaining was the groceries which she
asked me to put away. Absently, I found space in the minuscule
refrigerator for the meat and vegetables and most of the fruit. What
wouldn’t fit, was candidated for a luncheon fruit salad that I’d
sportingly volunteered to make.
Finishing up, I took the dry goods bag over to the pantry and
mechanically began to unload it. Rotely, I extracted one item after
another and pretty much randomly tossed them onto the shelves. How
organized did we really need to be for just a three day weekend after
all? As I neared the bottom I encountered an unopened carton of
Salems and barely suppressed vocalizing my sigh of relief. This
could be my out. A whole pack might be risky but not out of the
question. Desperation demands creativity … or is that thievery?
Reaching one final time into the bag, I was puzzled to feel yet
another carton. One carton would comfortably last mom about a week
and we were only staying three days. Why in the world a second
carton I thought as I lifted it out? Staring directly at it
disbelievingly, I stopped breathing and my jaw must have dropped
three inches. Indeed it was not a second carton of Salems but rather
a carton of Benson and Hedges Menthol 100’s, criss crossed with white
ribbon, and a ‘Happy Birthday Sophia’ tag dangling from a big red bow.
Dumbfounded understates how I felt. For a moment I was
psychologically paralyzed then finally I spun around and saw your
grandmother grinning from ear to ear, much as she’s doing now. In
some order I sputtered out ‘What’s this?’, ‘How did you know?’, and
‘Thank you, thank you’. Then neither waiting for nor caring about
the answers, I ran across the cabin and gave her a huge hug. Relief
rushed through my body in more ways than I could count. I wouldn’t
be sneaking around any longer. I wouldn’t have to break the news to
her myself. I wouldn’t have to endure the nagging discomfort already
present today. All I could say was ‘Mom, you’re amazing!’
The grin transitioned into a giggle as she said to me ‘Well you’ve
been catting around for a long time now. I decided to end your misery.
I know full well that my lecturing you isn’t going to do a whit of
good. Didn’t with me. Never does. For better or worse you’ve
already started and about the best thing I can do for you is stay off
your back which, by the way, is more than you did for me a few years
back my dear. So hurry up and go get a couple of Cokes and let’s sit
down and have a cigarette or two. We don’t have anything much more
pressing than that to do the entire weekend.’
And that’s exactly what we did. I was sure that I looked awkward and
inexperienced as mom offered me a light but apparently she didn’t see
it that way. I started with a petite puff but then followed with the
hard double drag my cravings demanded. Resisting an exhale, I just
continued dragging until I finally exploded. Mom just stared at me
and I suddenly felt more than a little self-conscious. I started to
blush and ask if I looked really stupid. She just shook her head and
said ‘By no means. Just the opposite. My baby is an honest to God
smoker. It’s hard to believe. I don’t really know what to think.’
And that’s all she’s ever said to this day.
By the end of the weekend it was almost like old news. By simply
spending time with her, I was smoking far more than I ever had before.
I was nearly through a second pack by the time we packed up on
Monday and it had all seemed so natural. Down at the lake. Sitting
by the river. Out at dinner. Curled up on the sofa after dark.
Reading. Watching TV. Chatting. No rules. No restrictions. No
commentary. We’d always spent an unusual amount of time talking with
each other. Smoking just further memorialized the activity.
My thoughts on the trip home are as clear as if it were yesterday.
Comfortably reclined in the passenger seat while smoking my first
cigarette in the car, I felt like hugging myself. I liked to smoke.
It was fun. It was adult. It was provocative. It was passage. Mom
could have been as hypocritical as my friends’ mothers, but she
wasn’t. She allowed me the space to seek my own identity, not one
she bestow upon me, and that freedom, no matter where it led, was in
my mind an act of love. Nearing home, I lit up a final cigarette for
each of us and handed one to her. As she turned toward me, took it,
and smiled, one small tear perched on my cheekbone as I said ‘Thank
you for loving me.’ ”
Talia remain disquietingly quiet as a natural pause followed.
Robotically, I searched about for my drink and cigarettes then turned
to mom for additional commentary. None was forthcoming. It was now
her turn to wipe away the mist. That was comment enough. Before I
could even catch my breath however Talia’s next questions came firing.
“Are you still glad that you started? If you could go back and do
it over again would you do the same thing?” My God this kid is
inquisitive. And the questions are insightful beyond her years but
then that’s nothing new.
“As much as I’d like to, I can’t lie to you. You’d know anyway” I
began. Then truthfully, if not proudly, I continued “I wouldn’t do a
damn thing differently” and that conversation was finished for the
night. I was not so naive however, as to confuse this ending with
closure of the topic, particularly given how candid I’d been. Given
the opportunity to strongly discourage her, I’d knowingly not taken
it and left the door gapingly open. Mom hadn’t been a hypocrite with
me. How could I be with Talia?
For the next couple of weeks Donovanesquely the topic wasn’t there,
yet it was. While not a word was spoken, I was beginning to feel
like a lab animal. Every time either mom or I lit a cigarette, Talia
intently studied each and every move. Mom and I exchanged occasional
winks over her fascination but we both knew what was coming. The
proverbial other shoe couldn’t be far from the ground. And it wasn’t.
I came home early on a late June Friday afternoon. Talia had been
dealing with exponents that week and needed a little extra coaching.
In the area of mathematics she’d left mom in the dust at least two
years before so just the two of us set up on the verandah table while
mom worked on dinner. Within minutes it was clear that exponents
were neither a problem nor her immediate concern. They were just a
ploy for arranging a one-on-one conversation with me. An altogether
different kind of power function.
“I’ve been thinking about this a lot mom and I’ve decided that it’s
time for me to begin smoking” she announced with brazen nonchalance.
Even with all the time I’d had to prepare for the possibility of her
so concluding, I hadn’t expected such a frontal approach and was
therefore caught off guard. “Oh?” I brilliantly retorted “and just
why is that?”
“Well” she began “it’s just like all the things that you were saying
the other day. It looks like a fun thing to do. And it’s something
that you and grandma both do that I feel left out of. I’m not saying
that I want to smoke a lot like you guys do. I just want to be able
to sometimes take a puff or two off your cigarette when we’re
chatting. I talked to grandma about it this afternoon and it was all
right with her if it’s all right with you. It would just be here on
the verandah with you guys. Nowhere else I promise. You wouldn’t
want me sneaking around like you did, would you?”
Not much of an argument then zing, the sneaking around comment. In a
household with two smokers even an idiot would be able to get
cigarettes effortlessly and one thing Talia isn’t, is an idiot.
Quietly, I thought through her request. On the surface, ludicrous.
No one in their right mind would allow a seven year old to start
smoking. Would they? Never-the-lees I tried to stay balanced.
She’s seven in chronology only. She looks more like ten, sounds like
fifteen, and acts like twenty. Which is she really? And regardless,
is she likely to make a different choice next year or the year after?
Unlikely. Say no and she’ll go it alone. Say yes and sanctify an
addiction but at least perhaps be able to monitor it. A tough choice
but ‘yes and hoping she’ll hate it’ is the only answer consistent
with who I’ve taught her to be. Uncommonly subdued for me, “No, I
don’t want you sneaking around. Yes, you can try an occasional puff.
And I hope like hell you hate it.” I responded coolly.
No childish cry of victory ensued. Just a simple “Thanks mom.
Thanks for trusting me. You’re just as great a mom as grandma ever
was. I love you both. And don’t worry, I won’t get hooked.” Famous,
no infamous, last words I thought. This is unfortunately one of
those rare occasions when Talia is nearly certain to be wrong.
Hurriedly I reached out and pulled her tight to me. There was no
need for her to see me well up. “You’re a pretty amazing kid ya know
too” I responded and then just held her for how long I don’t know
feeling incredibly disturbed with my decision. Only mom’s gravelly
announcement of dinner on the table brought us back into the now.
Dinner, tonight flipped with cocktails due to the bogus study session,
was vintage mom. While she’d accepted vegetables al dente, she
still needed her red meat. Tonight we humored her and were happily
rewarded with excellent spring lamb chops. With cocktails still in
front of us, we finished quickly and reconnoitered to the verandah.
The destination was familiar but the underlying sense of tension was
not. I wondered just how determined Talia was likely to be in
asserting her new privilege. Quite, I presumed, and I wasn’t wrong.
The very first time that I rested my cigarette in the ashtray she
reached for it. With stunning confidence she carefully rounded the
ash off and drew the filter to her lips. I was mesmerized by her
first drag. She pulled with some force on the golden tip and clearly
was rewarded with a mouthful of smoke. Showing the first sign of
hesitancy, she held it in for a moment not quite knowing what to do
next. Finally she opened her mouth and smoke inelegantly began
drifting aimlessly out. Then suddenly something seemed to click.
With perhaps two thirds of the puff already escaped, she rapidly
inhaled the remaining. Her mouth wide open, I gasped as the white
sheet of smoke vanished down this child’s throat. I prepared
optimistically for gagging and coughing but amazingly all she
delivered was just a little hack and a short spurt of the just
ingested smoke.
Satisfied for the moment, she returned the cigarette to me and asked
“Did I do that okay?”
I responded “Yes you did that okay. Too okay. I’d really rather
that you didn’t inhale, Talia. At least not yet. It just isn’t
right.”
Quizzically she looked at me and shot back “Huh? Isn’t that really
why you and Grammy like it so much? It isn’t even really smoking if
you don’t inhale, is it?” she queried.
Again she got me through the heart. All I could say was “You’re
impossible. You know that don’t you?” She smiled broadly in
response, recognizing that expression as my white flag. What more
could I say?
That evening she took maybe a half dozen puffs all told, inhaled a
bit of each, and only choked badly on one of them. Her pronouncement
at the end of the evening was that her original suspicions seemed to
be correct. She thought she liked Grammy’s Salem Light 100’s better
than my Marlboros. For a seven year old to prefer light menthols to
full strength regulars was in one sense quite reasonable yet in an
other way unthinkably perverse. The parenting road ahead was taking
some uninvited turns.
Predictably the issue of alcohol wasn’t far behind. She didn’t push
nearly as hard and I didn’t cave. But just like Arnold, I knew it
too would be back. For the moment however smoking was a sufficiently
captivating activity. A typical summer night changed complexion
little over the past few with a single exception. Talia actively and
interchangeably shared our cigarettes. Her preference for menthol
didn’t preclude her from giving indiscriminate, equal time to my
Marlboros. She did however, seem to understand that this privilege
was pushing the envelope and she was careful not to abuse it. She
limited herself to a single puff from each cigarette which probably
totaled eight or ten over one of our typical two hour evenings. It
was a norm I learned to live with through practiced oblivion.
I took the week before Labor Day off and we headed down the Blue
Ridge Parkway for the mountains but not to the same cabin that mom
and I used to stay at. I rented a lovely three bedroom, lake front
home a half mile and a world away. We had a full ten days to
completely relax. Well almost completely. Schooling never took a
vacation. Talia never asked. We never suggested it. But the venue
alone would lighten the curriculum. Telescope in hand, we opted for
night school.
This left the days long and leisurely. Much too long for a diet of
mixed drinks, so we stocked up well on Coke, iced tea, and a little
chardonnay. The yard was sloped gently down toward the lake and
offered comforting patches of shade beneath majestic old oaks. We
swam, lounged, and swam some more. Okay so we really just floated on
air mattresses. Don’t be so picky.
By mid-afternoon the sun left the barbecue pit area in total shade
and the relief was welcome. Combined with a light lake breeze the
90/90 weather turned downright pleasant. If possible, it was an even
more intimate setting than the verandah at home and remarkably
peaceful. So much so, that we often caught ourselves whispering when
there wasn’t anyone else within a quarter mile of us. For several
hours each afternoon and evening we congregated there.
Talking and laughing. Drinking and smoking. Cooking and eating.
While Talia continued to observe the unspoken one puff per cigarette
guideline, it did occurred to me a couple of times that her
opportunities had increased several fold here, but making an issue
out of it seemed contrarian. So I just said nothing.
The next week back at home I wished that I had. Monday evening Talia
and mom were already waiting for me on the verandah when I got home.
Quickly changing my clothes, I raced to join them. Mai tais awaiting,
I anxiously poured myself one. Sitting down I noticed that Talia
was already sharing mom’s cigarette even as I arrived and what’s more
she wasn’t automatically returning it after a single puff but rather
taking a rapid second hit.
Rationalizing that this was simple substitution for not having the
usual pair of cigarettes to draw from, dismissively I too lit up and
instantly relaxed. With mom having just extinguished her Salem,
Talia now turned her full attention to my Marlboro and took a quick
puff. I breathed a little easier as she immediately returned it to
the ashtray but that was short lived when momentarily, before I’d had
time to retrieve it, she reached for it again. It was spooky just
how comfortable she now looked smoking a cigarette. It was no longer
just a game. She knew how to smoke and by all indication truly
enjoyed it. And eerily, down to the most minute details, as a smoker
she looked like a miniature me.
For the first time since early summer I couldn’t help myself and
blurted out “It looks to me like you’re beginning to smoke quite a
bit more. That makes me very uncomfortable.” Staring me square in
the eye she responded “Well, just because of where we were last week
and how much you guys were smoking, I smoked quite a bit more than I
ever had before and tonight I just don’t feel like going back to so
few puffs. I enjoyed getting to smoke more last week and I’ve really
wanted to have a cigarette almost all day long. So not smoking more
tonight is what would make me very uncomfortable.” Seven and half
and as usual she had this lawyer tongue tied. This time I didn’t
even have to say you’re impossible. She could see it in my eyes.
For the next several months that pattern continued. Talia would take
two, maybe even three or four puffs off our cigarettes. Like
anything else, it became first routine and then fairly invisible.
More practiced oblivion. It had also become clear when I thought
about it … so I avoided thinking about it … that she’d already
crossed the line. She might be late to dinner but she was never late
to smoke. Her inhales were no longer tentative and her exhales bore
that out. She handled a cigarette the way a seven year old should
handle pick up sticks. The whole act looked absurdly natural.
The final milestone … well perhaps I should never say final … was
almost a year ago now. She was now just turning nine and had been a
parasitic smoker for well more than a year. One day I came home
early from a West Coast assignment with the intention of surprising
them. I brought with me a fifth of Dom Perione which I thought I
just might let Talia have a little taste of. Quietly entering the
house, I snuck up on them on the verandah only to see mom holding one
cigarette and Talia another. My mood blackened as I was the one who
was surprised.
Before I could utter a word and as Talia stared calmly at me, mom
jumped in. “Okay so you’ve caught us. Like Sharon Stone says ‘What
are you going to do? Charge us with smoking?’. Quit deluding
yourself Sophia that you’ll somehow be a better mother if you manage
the amount Talia smokes. The horse has been long out of the barn my
dear and you helped open the gate. Don’t go beating yourself up over
it now. It’s unbecoming and rather indulgent don’t you think? Just
come to grips with the fact that your daughter smokes just like I had
to with you a number of years ago and get on with it.”
Wounded, but not yet dead, I demanded “How long has this been going
on?” to which Talia piped up and said “All summer”. With you gone
and only one cigarette to share, one day Grammy just said ‘Let’s cut
out this charade. You know you smoke. I know you smoke. Your mom
fights it, but she knows you smoke too. And I’m tired of you
constantly waiting like a vulture for my cigarette. Here, have one
of your own.’ So anytime you’re gone Grammy gives me a pack and lets
me make my own decisions. Usually I still just smoke at night. Oh,
maybe one or two earlier. It’s not quite so easy to say anymore.”
“Well that certainly sets a lot of things straight” I intoned
parentally, finally permitting myself to recognize just how
comfortable she’d become smoking. With my mouth open and my next
vitriolic observation about to emerge I suddenly found myself
giggling and “Okay” popping out of my mouth. “If that’s the way it
is, let’s have a cigarette on it” I said “but wait here for a moment
first.” Remembering the champagne, I chased down three glasses, a
towel, and returned. Popping the cork, I poured mom and myself each
a full glass and a splash for Talia. As it turned out, that was more
than she needed. This she agreed must be an adult taste that she
still wasn’t ready for.
And as far as smoking goes, that’s pretty much where we are today.
Talia’s been free to smoke exclusively on the verandah for about a
year now. Other places by specific permission. Needless-to-say her
smoking’s increased, as it always does when that kind of freedom is
granted, but not overwhelmingly so. I pick up a carton of mom’s
Salems and my Marlboros at the store every Saturday but still only
have to get Talia a fresh carton of Marlboro Light Menthol 100’s
about once a month. Well, come to think of it, maybe a little more
frequently lately. I guess that’s just how it is.
As I’m writing this, it’s two in the morning and Tally and I are
alone in a hotel room in Boston. We’ve been up here for the last
several days. As it turns out, there are only six so called ‘summer
prodigy’ programs in the entire country and not surprisingly Boston
area schools have three of them. We spent yesterday at BU and today
at MIT. I think that Talia’s leaning toward MIT’s scientific
methodology program but Harvard’s New World Archeology program may
well sway her tomorrow. In a couple of months, when she turns ten,
she’ll be eligible to attend any program she chooses. They’ve all
granted her preliminary acceptance. All I need to do is provide the
cash. No small feat for any of them.
It seems more than a little strange that her first formal classroom
experiences will be college courses. If it all works out the way we
plan, she’ll attend one or another of these programs for each of the
next four summers. That experience, added to the home course work we
plan, will have her eligible to be a college freshmen by the fall
after her thirteenth birthday. Obviously she’ll only go then if we
all feel she’s ready. Somehow I suspect she will be.
We grabbed a late afternoon meal at the Commons and of course took an
outside table in the still briskness of late April. We must have
chatted for an hour before we even bothered to order and then, to the
waitresses’ chagrin, we staggered first calamari appetizers then
Caesars a bit later. I’ve never seen Talia so animated. And
enjoying her contagious enthusiasm, I polished off a full carafe with
hardly a thought. Well almost full. I slipped Talia just a little.
I also found myself smoking a little heavier than usual what with the
wine and exquisite setting and Talia of course repeatedly sneaking
puffs off my cigarette when no one appeared to be looking. A bit
later, after we’d finished off the appetizer and Talia a short glass
of wine, she look up at me as I was lighting yet another cigarette
and suddenly much more serious than before said “Would you mind
terribly if I smoked in public tonight? If you do, I wouldn’t want
to embarrass you but as long as I smoke, I don’t see any particular
reason why I should I hide it? I’d really enjoy being able to sit
here and have a cigarette of my own with you. It’d be rad.”
Swallowing hard, I said “Well one reason for you not smoking here is
to keep me from getting arrested for child abuse or negligence or
something … but what the hell, I’m willing to risk it. Sure, go
ahead” and with that I pushed my pack and lighter playfully towards
her. Rather than accepting it as I had expected however, she instead
reached beneath the table for the small purse she’d been recently
carrying. Placing it carefully on the table in front of her, she
partially slid out an open pack of her Marlboro Menthols and adroitly
slipped a long, white filtered cigarette out of the hardpack along
with her own disposable lighter.
Her cigarette was lit and her supplies back out of sight in the bat
of an eyelash. With at least some attempt at being discreet, I
watched her proficiently take a couple of quick puffs to make certain
it was lit and then a single long, slow, deep drag. Now looking up,
her cigarette was nonchalantly held in a near upright position in her
left hand with her elbow resting comfortably on the chair arm. She
smiled at me radiantly, held her inhale for another pronounced moment,
then release an exhale that just couldn’t have come from someone so
young. Then ever so gently with her right hand she pushed forth an
empty glass and for a second time I returned it more than half full.
No longer could her behavior qualify as inconspicuous. She smoked
openly and drank nearly so. And again I watched the watchers. A few
folks just did a double take but for that matter so would I. A
couple of young teenage boys must have walked by fifteen times just
trying to figure the situation out. With her blond haired, chic
ponytail and a bit of tasteful makeup, I’m sure they must have
thought her their age or more. I don’t think she even noticed. So
far no problem.
The guy a few tables away however, poorly camouflaged behind last
week’s Globe, couldn’t take his eyes off her. He seems captivated by
her poise and her conduct, his eyes locked hard on every drag she
took. Him, he concerned me. With her only nine, albeit a rather
precocious nine, I found I was already a wary and apprehensive parent.
‘What will teen years bring?’ I think to myself. Then looking at
her lying so peaceful and still on the bed next to me, I conclude,
‘Nothing this kid can’t handle.’ And gently leaning over, I kiss her
soft and tender, sleeping cheek. The moment is to be treasured.
Only at two in the morning, is Talia still nine.