The Prodigal

By TAD BARTIMUS

Bill has left his wife. Came home one day and said, "I don't love you any more. I want a new lifestyle. I want my freedom. There is no other woman. See 'ya."

His wife was prostrate with grief. Sure, she'd been traveling a lot, had an exciting job, had become an accomplished, independent woman in their 20 years together. But at his request she'd never stayed away more than two nights. She still did all the cooking. Kept herself thin and pretty. They'd been through so much together: the deaths of their parents, infertility, tough financial times, his panic attacks, her cancer scare. They were each other's best friend. He'd never said a word.

What he walked away from, with a chilling deliberateness that defies reason, are the human connections acquired only through years of living and loving.

She checked credit card receipts. An old girlfriend from college days was back. It had been going on for months.

Bill had built his whole life on integrity, honesty, loyalty. He prided himself on working only with people he respected and trusted. Steadfast friend, devoted son, loving husband. He was a man of direction and purpose. Then one day, for whatever reason, he decided he didn't want to be that man anymore. Perhaps it was too hard. Perhaps he saw his own mortality. Perhaps he lost his mind.

So Bill has abandoned his own life. Not just his favorite leather reading chair, the dog, the magnolia tree he planted years ago in the back yard. What he walked away from, with a chilling deliberateness that defies reason, are the human connections acquired only through years of living and loving.

His desertion -- not just of his wife, but of his creed Ð causes his family to look upon him now as a stranger. Front doors once flung open for him are closed, his place at the table is empty. He is not welcome in the fire circle, he is no longer part of our tribe.

His friends are bitter. They loved him, too, and counted on him for help and humor. He was always there, like big trees, like autumn, like rock under foot. Now there is one less pallbearer when the time comes. Who could take his place? No one. But railing against it doesn't change reality; Bill's good name isn't any more. The interwoven threads of his life are unraveling because of his own deceit and detachment. How can he, without warning, walk out on a human being he's spent half his life with and not miss her? Not miss her morning smile, her goodnight kiss, her voice? We who loved him think, If he can do that to her, what can he do to me? Then we realize he's already done it. He's left us, too.

Like his wife, we are powerless to defend ourselves from the pain. We look at old pictures of good times and weep. We vacillate between hurt and rage. If he'd died we'd know exactly how to feel, to behave, we'd have ritual to fall back on, our memories would be intact. This deliberate abandonment makes us wonder: was the good man we lost real or did we invent him?

Maybe he'll come back. The other woman is probably temporary, an excuse instead of a reason. If he does come home, perhaps his wife will take him in. But for the rest of us, the return of the prodigal presents a moral dilemma. Can we forgive and forget? My heart says yes, my head says no; I doubt we'll get the chance.

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