On life's rocky road, another pebble

The Boston Herald

Beverly Beckham

The backpacks look alike. This is my sole defense. But I don't mention this as we drive silently along. The Berlin Wall was just a picket fence compared to the wall between us. When in trouble, remain mum, that's the rule. I learned this from the leader of the free world, President Clinton, who is an expert on at least one virtue.

But silence is difficult for me. What I'd like to do is talk - argue, plead, say to the man who promised to love me for better or worse (and this is definitely worse) that I made a simple, run-of-the-mill, everyday, garden-variety mistake.

I didn't intentionally pick up our daughter Julie’s backpack, carry it out to the car, put it in the trunk, then settle in the front seat for a 150 mile drive, with the intention of having to turn around and return the backpack to said daughter who is stuck penniless, clothesless and keyless in a hotel room.

I thought the backpack belonged to our young guest, Xena, whom we were driving back home. It was, however, Julie's.

It was an accident, your honor. I swear. The room was dark. The day was young. I didn't mean to do it.

But I say none of these things as my husband drives, i.e. jets, down Interstate 84, smoke pouring from his nostrils.

Before we stopped talking, he insisted he wasn't angry with me, that he was angry with the situation. But I am the situation. It's my fault we're going back to where we just came from.

It's funny how a little thing like picking up the wrong backpack can so totally alter the mood of a day. Here we were all set for a five-hour drive from Matamoras, Pa., where our daughter is, to Austerlitz, N.Y., to return Xena to her family, then back to Massachusetts and home. The sun was shining. We were shining. We had books on tape. We had the soundtrack from "Ragtime" (my choice). We had Keb' Mo' (my husband's choice). Then this.

I think about reminding him that at least we discovered the mistake before we had driven all the way home. I want to play the It could be worse game. It could be winter and our youngest child could be stuck waiting outside in the cold without shoes or clothes or money or car keys and not comfortably ensconsed in a hotel room waiting for us to return. It could be a nuclear winter and we'd be grateful for a small problem like this. This is nothing. This isn't a tragedy. This is just a minor inconvenience, a pebble on the bumpy road of life.

But now is not the time for Philosophy 101.

I briefly consider mentioning my boots, my beautiful leather, bought-in-Toronto-at-an-inflated-price, hardly worn, butter-soft, perfect, tossed-out-by-him boots. They were in a brown paper bag along with a scarf, gloves and winter things that I had taken from the downstairs closet to be brought upstairs. "Will you take this upstairs?" I had asked, handing him the bag. He tossed them in the trash instead.

See? The very same thing. A bag is a bag is a bag. A perfect example of a simple error. But I bite my tongue and refrain from throwing my Toronto boots into the fire because the truth is this happened at least 15 years ago and I have brought it up at least a million times.

He will not do this. . He is nicer than I am. He lets things go. In a few hours he'll be fine. In a few days this will be forgotten. By next week he'll laugh about the backpack.

But right now he isn't even close to smiling.

And so we drive along in silence, the book on tape too grim, "Ragtime" too upbeat, Keb' Mo' on deck, waiting, as am I, for a little more time to pass to lighten the mood.