It Ended in a Flash

The high-desert sun beat through the windshield of my new Toyota Tundra with such intensity that even with the air conditioning on max power, I couldn't keep the small space cool. The only relief my wife, Jessie, and I could get from the burning rays was to turn the truck away from the setting sun. We were waiting yet again for Jessie’s mother, Margaret, to return home. We called her to let her know we were on our way before we even left our house, but she wasn't there when we arrived. She did it all the time; sometimes she even left after we called just so she wouldn't be there. So as irritated as we were, we weren't surprised. We both sat quietly in the heat tapping feverishly on our smart phones with no real purpose. We were victims of the technological world of our time.

Our oldest son, Jason, was with Margaret. He was eleven, a little man with the spirit of a baby boy still inside him. He was tall for his age, blond and brave with this amazing crooked grin that endeared him to anyone he met. The boy in him still loved to visit his grandma. He had asked early in the week to stay at Grammies for the weekend. Despite her failings as a mother, she was a good grandma. The kind that always made pancakes for breakfast, bought the cheap plastic toys found in the check-out lane when she saw you staring at them, and she baked chocolate chip cookies every time a grandchild visited. Our youngest son was staying all night with a friend, and Jessie and I needed a break from the boys, so we agreed. If I had known then what I know now, I would've said NO! It didn't matter how many times my wife told me that her mom was crazy, I just shrugged it off as a mother-daughter spat. I would always nod my head at Jessie and say, “Yeah, she’s a little eccentric.”

It was late in the day on an extremely hot Sunday after a weekend spent working on and failing to get the water sprinklers functioning properly. Our lawn was fried; the new grass we planted earlier in the spring was now an ugly yellow-brown; we had straw not grass. On Saturday, the insurance company declined our claim for a dent in the new truck, and last, but not least, the boys’ father was out of work again. There would be no more child support to assist with the increasing cost of raising young men. The last thing we needed was to deal with Margaret; that was a challenge on a normal day.

During the times when things became particularly difficult Jessie assigned me to handle her mom. For good reason, when Margaret was in a controlling phase, obvious by her absence when we arrived, and Jessie was tired, there would invariably be a major fight. I know now that Jessie had dealt with this her whole life, and she just couldn't do it anymore. I was usually quite good at managing Margaret. I’m the fixer; I always have been. I have a way of making people feel comfortable around me, and I’m hard not to like. I soothe people with compliments and make them feel appreciated. I can say thank you a hundred ways, and it sounds more genuine with each repetition. But the longer we sat there sweating in the hot sun, the more my superpower diminished as if those rays were kryptonite against my diplomacy.

Finally, we watched her red Jeep pull into the drive. She and Jason walked into the house without even a nod in our direction. We were facing away from the house and the truck was only a couple months old and unfamiliar, so it was understandable. I dragged myself up to her house thinking of only one thing—a cool relaxing shower. She opened the door and expressed an exaggerated surprise at my being there already. I had called three hours ago, and she only lived twenty minutes from our house; how could I possibly be there already? I refrained from the actually speaking the sarcasm. Instead I just nodded by way of greeting, and she started talking incessantly about how they had to eat first.

As she started unwrapping the sandwiches she had just purchased, I spoke quickly.

“Margaret, that was nice of you to get him a sandwich, but we've been waiting awhile. We just want to get home. He can take it with him.”

She ignored me as if I hadn't even spoken. She kept setting up the table for them to eat. Standing in front of the refrigerator she stacked condiments in her arms. “Jason, get us some knives.” She nodded at him while freeing her arms of mustard, mayonnaise and pickles.

Spinning around like a tiny tornado, she suddenly stopped and rushed over to the couch. In her spacious ranch-style home, the kitchen, living room and dining room were all in the same large space. I was about to gently insist we go when she pulled a new pair of shoes from the Macy’s bag that dangled from her arm. She looked up at me with a smile across her whole face.

“Shoes?” I said, more to myself than to her. I had told her earlier in the weekend when she called to ask what he needed for school that we just bought him new shoes, and he really didn't need anything. Because I knew she wouldn't take no-thank-you for an answer, I suggested some tee-shirts or shorts if she really wanted to get him something.

“Yeah--well, he wanted them.” She held up the ninety dollar Heely's, those stupid tennis shoes with a wheel in the heel. She had purchased expensive shoes for a boy who would grow out of in about ten minutes or at least three months. Truthfully, it was closer to the later since he was practically growing before our very eyes these days.

Exasperated, I clinched my fists trying to still my frustrations. When I felt pain from my nails dig into my palms, I spoke to her as politely and respectfully as I could while I stood there exhausted in my sweat-soaked tank top. “Margaret, I told you he didn't need shoes, and he can’t wear those.” My sweet syrupy voice was transitioning to directive. “He’ll fall down with those on, plus the school won’t let him wear them. They cost too much money—take them back.” Our amazing eldest son struggled with coordination. I had watched him fall off his bicycle when he was traveling at a moderate speed and there were no obstacles in his path. He could fall over his feet walking down our empty hallway and a skate board was like a daredevil act for him at that age. I knew what would happen to him if he tried walking with shoes that had wheels in them. Beyond the embarrassment of falling in front of his friends was the real chance that he might hurt himself.

Before my eyes, I watched her transform from happy little old grandma to insane woman instantaneously. Her high pitched shriek pierced my ears as she closed in on me. She ranted in hysterics, “You are so mean. You are mean to them. You are a terrible parent. You never let them be kids, and you’re mean. You mistreat them all the time!” She informed me through gritted teeth and flying spittle that she would do whatever she wanted. “It is my right as a grandparent. You can’t tell me what to do.” It was if someone different was talking, or more accurately yelling, to me. She continued to yell as she walked away from me.

I felt my body react without thought; I went into defensive mode. My bear arms flew out to my side in the narrow foyer to block her exit. “You can’t accuse me and just walk away. What is it you think I've done? Why do you think I've mistreated them?” I asked in an amazingly controlled volume, but I clearly articulated each word. I had to hear what she thought I’d done wrong as a parent. I wasn't thinking that she was just bating me as I would later realize. I simply wasn't thinking at all. I was scared that she might try to take the boys away. Lesbian families in Utah had enough challenges without a grandparent implying there was wrongdoing by the step-parent who had no legal standing in the state to begin with.

By blocking her exit, I had trapped her like an orangutan on speed. She went mad—frantically jumping around me. Her pitch grew higher, and she screeched louder. It was something that didn't seem possible until it happened. “Don’t you touch me. Don’t you hit me! You’re threatening me in my house.”

“What!” I dropped my arms down to my side and clasped them behind my back squeezing my own wrist to the point of pain. More submissive than a dog with his tail between his legs, I backed away from her with my head lowered and began to apologies. I had to make the screaming stop. I had to end this spinning out of control. “Margaret, I’m sorry I didn't mean to be disrespectful. I just want to understand.” I was employing every calming technique I knew, but still she screamed at me.

Jason! Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the tear-filled eyes of my sweet son trembling in silence. “Jason, go get in the truck,” I said. He bolted for the door taking nothing with him and not looking back. Seeing his sad scared face brought me back from the insanity. In full-fledged flight mode, I ran after him towards the truck and the safety of my wife.

“Jason, get back here! Don’t you go with her,” Margaret yelled out the door as we ran. “Jay!” she screamed, drawing my single-syllable name out for several seconds. “You better never come to my house again. You’re not welcome here!”

Jessie’s quiet sauna was harshly disrupted by her baby’s uncontrollable sobs and her wife’s hysterics. We shocked her into our reality when we jumped into the truck both blubbering out of control. She spun in her seat looking at her son in the back and then back at me. She repeated the gesture and then jumped out of the truck and re-entered in the back seat next to her son. She wrapped her loving arms tightly around his shaking body as I sped away repeating loudly. “I have to fix it. I have to fix it. I have to fix it.”

Jessie hushed me abruptly with stern words, “Jay! Stop it.” Then she spoke quiet soothing words of love to our frightened son pushing his shaggy hair out of his eyes and stroking his flushed face. He finally relaxed and buried his head against her. I mumbled my mantra softly until she finally turned her attention to me and demanded to know what happened. Momma bear had appeared, and she wanted to know why her son was so scared.

She listened while I told the story. Even though I had just lived through it, it sounded unreal. I spoke through sobs while Jason’s head bobbed up and down confirming my explanation, but he didn't say a word. I knew I had to do something to turn back time. Whatever just happened was bad, and it had to be fixed. My head was spinning and my stomach clinched; I couldn't think in my panic. I barely kept the truck on the road. I was going way too fast and the narrow highway appeared smaller through tear-filled eyes. Jessie patted my shoulder, “Honey, please slow down. I’m so sorry you had to experience that.”

Jessie was the face of calm as I gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my arms shook.  I continued to fight the urge to slam my foot down on the accelerator. Finally, she announced the solution--call Dean. Dean was Margaret’s husband, and he was always sensible. Dean was a big man of about sixty with some thirty years of experience as a police officer. He and I enjoyed many good discussions of war stories we’d read. He was always so good to me. We believed he could help. She scrolled for his number on her cell phone and pushed connect. She handed me the phone, and I pulled off to the side of the road when he said hello. I tried to remain composed, “Dean, it’s Jay. I need your help...”

Before I could finish my sentence I was being yelled at for the second time in the same day. I felt like a disobedient Airman being corrected by the drill sergeants. “You better never go near my house again. I’ll call the police on you. How dare you threaten my wife in my own home. You better pray I don’t meet with your commander tomorrow and tell him who you are. I’ll tell him you’re gay!” Click.

Silent tears streamed down my face as I handed the phone back to Jessie. Margaret had called him first. He believed her, and it was all over. I had served honorable for just over nineteen years in the Don’t-Ask-Don’t-Tell Air Force.

 The next morning, I drove the twenty-five miles north on I-15 from Salt Lake City to Hill Air Force Base. It was normally an easy uneventful drive, but it took longer that day than ever before not because of traffic or construction. It was because each mile was drawn out as my twenty year career ran through my head in a series of vivid memories from Airman to senior officer. I pulled my truck up in front of the personnel center. It looked like all the Air Force building all over the world, a bland combination of brown and beige paint over cinder blocks. I sat in the truck with the engine off and the windows down watching young sharply dressed men and women in uniform walk in and out of the double glass doors. Finally, I opened the door to get out, and instantly I slammed the door and started the truck; I couldn't do it. I had even put the transmission in reverse before I put it back in park and wiped the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand. I had no choice. If I put in my retirement paperwork and Dean did go to my commander, I knew the Air Force would rather retire this old veteran than deal with the bad publicity of kicking out another homosexual. I had served in two of our nations recent conflicts. I had deployed to an active combat zone on the Tigris River in Iraq; rocket and mortar attacks were daily events. It would look bad for the Air Force to kick me out. Everything I had worked for, including achieving the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, ended in a flash at the hands of a crazy woman on a scorching hot summer day in Utah.