By Bob Mustin

It’s not that after thirty-four years of marriage I begrudge Willow her discovery that she’s a lesbian. I’m okay with that. We’re business partners and great friends and will be for life. And you’ll probably think I’m toying with denial here, but it’s the kids who have a way of making transitions of this sort more difficult than they have to be. Especially for two middle-aged counterculturalists who run a health food store with a tiny restaurant in the back.

Willow and I closed The Purple Cabbage early last night, and when we pulled into our driveway Alyce was waiting. The kids were to arrive soon, so while Willow and Alyce sorted through Willow’s things and packed them into the boxes Alyce had brought from the package store, I opened a ginseng cola and began reading an Utne article on radical suburbia.

As my gaze failed me somewhere short of the fourth page, I heard the front door open, then Bevan’s purposeful strides. Admittedly, as he stood before me in his Navy whites, brand new three-striped boards on his shoulders, he cut a dashing figure. He’s my height now, six-three, and quite a physical specimen, even for a Navy SEAL. Little remains to remind me of the slouching, overweight, unkempt soccer goalie he was at twelve. He was graduated in the top ten from his class at the Naval Academy some ten years ago, and the focus and discipline military life has imposed on him seems to have calmed him emotionally. For that Willow and I will be ever grateful.

I embraced him, expecting him to meet my hug. He didn’t, and my hand slipped away into a firm but impersonal handshake.

"Look at you," I said, flicking a finger across one of his shoulder boards. "You’re going to be a colonel before we know it."

"It’s captain," he said. "Commander, then captain. I’m in the Navy."

"Of course. Captain." I patted his flat gut and punched him lightly on one broad shoulder. He smiled, but I think I detected a flash of smirk.

"Carrie’s not here yet," he said, making the question a pronouncement of fact.

"She’ll be here on the dead run at eight o’clock sharp, if I know your sister."

We heard staccato footsteps on the stairs to my rear, then women’s voices. Bevan smiled as Willow turned the corner.

Willow’s a very attractive woman, her beauty undiminished by middle age. Oh, she’s a little thicker in the waist now, but not much. A few faint streaks of gray have invaded her long hair, but the disarming smile and effervescent personality are indelible.

I often picture her the way she was the night I met her: eighteen years old and dressed in faded jeans that clung in all the right places. A sheer, floral print blouse tied just above her abdomen. Her long, near-black hair braided into pigtails and hanging across her breasts. I had had a high going since about three in the afternoon, and everything was resonating quite nicely. Still, I couldn’t believe how beautiful she was. She begged to cut into the concession line at the Omni where I waited, as Procol Harum started their set. A scent of jasmine hovered about her, and, well, I just couldn’t keep my hands off. She whispered her phone number in my ear, and by some miracle I managed to retain it until the next day.

She was Hannah back then. Hannah Guthrie. Friends had nicknamed her Willow because of her slim build, her tan skin and the lithe way she walked and moved, even though she’s only a fraction over five feet tall. I liked the name, and when we married a couple of months later, she changed her first name, too. Now she’s Willow Riesling, and it’s always seemed to fit.

She giggled when she saw Bevan, and the sound of it warmed me the way a spring day does. Squealing with delight she leaped into his arms. He gathered her up and, blushing, he turned his gleaming face to one side to receive her kiss.

Alyce stood behind her, smiling, cropped curls hanging about her round, handsome face. In her thick arms she held a cardboard box filled with books.

"Oh," said Willow, without a trace of awkwardness, "This is Alyce." She glanced at me and smiled. "See you in a few." Then she retrieved a smaller box from the hallway and followed Alyce out the front door. Moments later we heard a car engine groan to life.

"What’s going on here, Pop?" asked Bevan. "What’s Mom doing? Those were some of her favorite books." His face had soured into a perplexed scowl, the same one he had worn at age seven when he had crept downstairs and discovered Willow and me making love on the living room couch.

I shrugged.

Bevan rubbed his face. "You two are getting divorced, aren’t you?"

I smiled, hoped it was reassuring.

"Ah, gee," he said. He ran a hand over his head bristles. "I swear to God, you two are such Peter Pans."

Another shrug.

Then Bevan glared, his voice menacing: "Who was that she was with?"

I cleared my throat, trying to maintain my smile. "I think I’d better let your mom answer all the questions."

Bevan’s brow furrowed. "Ah, jeez," he said. He slumped onto the couch.

Moments later a clatter arose from the front steps and the door flew open. Carrie Riesling Baker burst into the living room, cell phone buried in her left ear. Her other hand dragged five-year-old Tiffany, her grass-stained soccer uniform a twisted wad of fabric, clods of dirt tumbling from her once-white shoes onto our nice hardwood floor.

Carrie tapped one sandaled foot, its leather popping like powder caps in a toy gun. As she stood there I couldn’t help but see Willow in her late twenties. Barking into the cell phone to Steve, her husband, I saw Willow’s expressiveness, her impatience with the mundane. But without the idealism, the constant cheeriness. Tiffany pulled loose and ran for the downstairs bathroom.

Carrie broke off her conversation. She glanced about. "Where’s Mom? It’s eight o’clock."

"She’s moving out," said Bevan, before I could deflect the question. "She’s turned queer, or something."

Carrie whirled to face me, hands on her hips. "Dad?"

I retreated from her advance. "According to your brother, we’re getting divorced."

"Oh, for crying out loud." She glanced to Bevan and sighed.

Her reaction incensed me. I wanted to ask her how a beer-swilling frat house party girl at North Carolina State could become so judgmental all of a sudden. And how do you go from college debauchery to a pillar of the Peachtree Presbyterian Church in the blink of an eye? Okay, maybe Willow and I weren’t everything these two wanted in a set of parents. Most parents disappoint their kids at some point, but they get over it as they grow up. It has been our misfortune, however, to have given birth to two who couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

"Well?" said Carrie. "Are you going to tell me what this is all about?" She glanced at her watch. "I have a family to mind."

I shoved my hands deep into my pockets. "You two relax. Your Mom will be back soon." Tiffany yelled from the bathroom. Carrie sighed and dashed toward the caterwauling.

I can’t say I relished the next seven minutes, but Bevan did make it a little less awkward for me. He told one of his tales from the Persian Gulf War. He’s apparently quite taken with weapons and blowing things up, and I nodded attentively as he talked of his team’s surreptitious landing and of their reconnaissance within a stone’s throw of a contingent of Saddam’s Republican Guard. As he talked I kept seeing Willow and me at the Pentagon during the Vietnam War protests in sixty-seven, singing and holding hands with the others. We had slept nearby that night, in our van, and our lovemaking had been something you don’t forget. Bevan, incidentally, had been conceived that night.

Carrie again clamored into the living room, pulling up Tiffany’s shorts as she walked and scolding her for some unspecified sin. And that was, of course, the moment of Willow’s return. I do love that woman, but I could do without the grand entrances.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "I’ll never get it all done! Never!" She squealed with delight, waltzed over to Tiffany and plucked her from Carrie’s grasp, giving her a very loud kiss, which the kid seemed to enjoy immensely. Then she pulled Carrie to her. Willow’s enthusiasm is ever contagious, and she soon had Carrie dancing with her. They ended up at Commander Bevan’s side. Willow tried, to no avail, to get him to join them, so eventually mother and daughter laughed and danced their way back across the room. Tiffany tried to get in on the act, too, but she almost tripped them, just as they were about to collapse onto the couch.

"Mom," said Bevan, "I hate to break up your love-in, but Dad says you have something to discuss with us."

Willow eyed me. She stood and began to pace. "What has Marty told you?"

"That you two are getting divorced," said Bevan.

"It’s true," said Willow. "We are."

Carrie shook her head. "I know you’re a pair of kooks, but I always thought you loved one another."

"We do," said Willow. She bent and took Carrie’s hand.

I nodded.

"But," she said with a smile in my direction - a smile that took my breath away - "this marriage is not what I want at this point in my life."

"For Pete’s sake, Mom, can’t you two ever be satisfied?" Carrie brushed Tiffany from her lap and stood, nose to nose with Willow. "Look at you. You’re fifty-two years old, and you’re still acting like a teenager." She tapped her foot. Again the pop-pop-pop.

"Still trying to reinvent society," said Bevan.

"Nothing wrong with that," I said.

Willow nodded. "But this has nothing to do with changing the world. You see," she said, "I’ve discovered that I’m happier in the company of women."

Carrie’s eyes widened and she jerked her hand away. "You weren’t joking," she said to Bevan.

"Told you."

"You knew?" Willow asked.

"Put two and two together when I saw you with that butch."

Willow shook her head. "You are so thick-headed, Bevan."

He sprang to his feet. "Look here, Mom, that’s enough."

I picked up Tiffany and lifted her onto my lap. She buried her little face in my shirtfront.

"It’s bad enough that we had to be raised by a couple of flower children," said Bevan. "Why are you bothering to tell us, anyway? Surely you don’t think we’re going to approve. You two are going to do whatever you want, regardless of what we think."

"I though you might learn something from this," Willow snapped.

"Such as?"

"Such as understanding."

"Tolerance," I offered, a trifle weaker than I’d intended.

Then Bevan turned to me. "You," he growled, "where are you with all this? You’re the man here."

"Thank you," I said.

"How could you have let this happen? You weren’t taking care of things at home, is that it?"

It was hard to keep a straight face at that, despite my irritation at the direction the conversation was taking.

"It wasn’t his decision to make," said Willow. "We’ve always respected each other’s autonomy. And if your inference is about our sex life, it was dynamite. Absolute fireworks. You of all people should realize that."

Bevan’s face turned crimson. My heart thumped as Willow stood there, triumphantly, hands on hips.

I think Carrie smiled, behind the hand she held over her mouth. Then she turned to me. "Dad, is this the way you want it?"

I had in mind to make an emphatic point, but something got in the way of words. Maybe I simply didn’t want to add to the complications. At any rate Willow, always able to sense awkwardness, took my hand.

"Seems like there should be a little concern here for the nuclear family," Bevan said.

"The nuclear family?" Willow shrieked. "That’s the biggest myth ever perpetrated."

Carrie rose and took Tiffany from my lap. "The world was better off before the sixties," she said. "Before your generation started meddling. Back when families were at the core of things."

"Oh, for crying out loud," said Willow. She gave my hand a squeeze and let go. "You don’t know what you’re talking about. Families were dysfunctional as hell. Why do you think the sixties happened?"

"Don’t do this," I said. "Please." Watching Carrie mirror Willow, both pouting, hands on hips, I wondered at my own emotional reaction, maybe for the first time. Was I feeling anger? Frustration? Fear of abandonment? I’m still not sure, but something was building inside me, building fast.

"Look," said Bevan, "you two do what you want. I have a career in the Navy. I have principles. A code of ethics. I don’t need this."

"If you have principles and a code of ethics," I said, my voice louder than I had expected it to be, "it’s because we instilled in the two of you an ability to think for yourselves."

Bevan glared.

Carrie stared curiously. "We do, Dad. That’s always been what you don’t like."

One of my Birkenstocks stomped the floor. "I don’t think you learned anything from our example, judging by the cowardly way you two live your lives. Life’s not as simple as you want it to be. You don’t have the faintest idea how complex life can be when you live it from the heart." I fled to the kitchen, a wave of sadness descending.

A half-hour later Willow and I sat alone, me in my easy chair, her on the couch nearby. I flipped on the television, then recognizing the futility of finding escape there, I hit the off button.

"You were really quite good," she said.

"They’re our children, I know, but this time they went too far."

She neared and kissed me. "You know I love you, don’t you?"

There was that smile again, and I was putty in her hands. She sat in my lap and we made out, maybe for the last time.

Then she stood, her touch, her warmth gone. "Can you help me get the rest of my things out to the car?"

I rose and we trooped upstairs to her boxes. As we finished packing we reminisced a little and talked about the store some, but we didn’t mention the kids. She told me, as she always did in the midst of our best conversations, that she thought I’d have made a good Buddhist. And she told me she hoped I would get to know Alyce better. She said she and Alyce had discussed it, and they wanted to have me over for dinner next Saturday night. I accepted.

But now that she’s gone, I find myself searching for excuses. I’m not quite in touch with it yet, but it feels as if a bridge has been crossed, and it’s on fire.