As he entered my home, strode across the kitchen with purpose in his heavy steps, and dropped his tool box beside the power tower, I couldn't help but notice how he hasn't changed much since high school. He was wearing pants he'd worn as a teenager. They were always my favorite pair of his-- black and made of thin nylon, zippers surrounded the calf to create shorts on hot days. The shape of his wallet was outlined in the thin fabric of his back pocket, keys and other items cluttered the side pockets. He was wearing a t-shirt he'd received as a gift while in the military-- in giant letters the word "peace" with "through superior firepower" beneath a picture of a rifle. I could see the gaping hole in his right armpit as he reached up to disassemble the pull-up bar. I would always fold his laundry since he'd usually leave it in the dryer, or in his hamper. I'd find the small openings on the seams and sew them shut before they could get any larger. He was wearing his summer scally cap with his unit crest pin on the side. He was sick and kept striding out of the room to blow his nose like an out-of-tune trumpet.
Disassembling the tower was much more challenging than it needed to be. His over-sized hands fumbled clumsily with the screws and dropped them to the ground. The wrenches he held clattered to the floor as they slipped away. Sometimes he slammed them down on my wooden desk. He spoke to me about things he probably hadn't mentioned to anyone. I stared at the swaying leaves of the plant I had watered and placed in the window.
He took away the 140 pound grappling dummy that has been lying on my floor for over a year. I dragged it from room to room. Once, I had the great idea of standing it in a corner, but after hoisting it up against a wall, the weight of the upper body just slid helplessly back to the floor. I offered to carry the feet and help him take it out to his car, but he refused, bending and wrapping his arms around the waist and lugging it toward the door. I followed behind with a box of pint glasses. When he got to the stone steps he asked for help, "I don't want the leather to drag on the ground," he reasoned. I placed the box down and lifted the feet. I'd barely found my grip before he started pulling me down the steps. I nearly lost my balance and face planted. I thought of when my brother and I had moved out the giant gym and had picked up separate ends, had spoken to each other the whole way to say things like, "ready," and "okay." He'd descended the steps first also, but had taken them one at a time, and glanced up at me to be sure I had my balance before stepping down again.
He told me of how he was fighting with his mother and sister-- a common occurrence in his life. It suddenly occurred to me that he has been pushing away the people who care about him the most for years. It was with his family, with me, that he would experience moments of vulnerability, usually brought on by a long night of drinking. The iron wall he hid behind in a front of invincibility and stoicism would crumble and he would tell stories in tears about his time in the war, his childhood, the friends he'd lost tragically over the years. Sometimes he'd realize what he was doing and admonish himself for being so weak. Sometimes the liquor would just lull him to sleep and by the time he woke up the wall would have returned, stronger than before. I realize now that the drinking, the affairs, the immersing himself in fights or work, the speeding through activities of daily life was all to keep him from feeling the difficult emotions he shoved away behind the iron wall. These things that eventually led to the end of our marriage were temporary highs that allowed him to forget about the pain he was trying to keep hidden from the world. It breaks my heart to see the strain that these hidden emotions cause. It breaks my heart to know that our experience is not unique.
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