Maenads and Lime Jello

Women are arguing over which of them saw most deeply into Ben’s soul. On Facebook, of course. In a world in which physical proximity is no longer a relevant determinant, Facebook is the de facto town square.

They remind me of Maenads fighting over Orpheus.

I’ve been cast as Mountain Girl to Ben’s Jerry.

Which irritates me no end.

###

Two long conversations yesterday.

The first with Max. “Look, Mom,” he said. “I’m sorry Ben’s dead, but I am not about to revise history. Ben was an asshole.”

Oh, implacable Millennial!

“I wouldn’t say that to Robin if I were you,” I said. “And, of course, he was an asshole. But he was also not an asshole.”

Max is flying in tomorrow. Together, we will dissemble the Tburg digs. This will be an immense undertaking, and Robin will never be grateful enough: He will still argue to put me in a substandard dementia home in 10 years where they only serve three flavors of jello simply so he can buy a Camaro.

(Of course, he will have to learn to drive a Camaro before he can buy one.)

I am counting on Max’s implacable nature to get me the lime jello I deserve.

###

The second conversation was with the last official Ben girlfriend Sarolta, who is being roundly vilified by the Maenads.

She initiated.

“Sarolta, I do not judge you in the slightest,” I told her. “Ben’s obsessive lying is what broke the two of us up. I remember feeling what I suspect you are feeling, and it was really, really awful. Lying like that is a kind of abuse—though I imagine if you were able to confront Ben with that fact, it would be impossible for him to recognize that.

“I am deeply disappointed in him. Had he lived, had he recovered, I would have let him know that. But, of course, he didn't live, so I could only let him know I love him—which, of course, is also true.”

Then Sarolta sent me an FB “friend” request.

I’m actually pretty selective about FB friend requests since popularity isn’t anything I’ve ever cared about. Not even when I was a teenager.

“Are you Facebook friends with Sarolta?” Lew had asked me during one of our all-night vigils at Ben’s bedside.

“Why would I be Facebook friends with Sarolta?” I said. “What are we going to talk about? Ben’s dick size?”

Of course, I had to accept Sarolta’s request. But I do hope it’s not a prelude to any more long conversations about Ben. I do feel badly for her, but my primary interest in all of this has always been to safeguard the emotional wellbeing of my son.

Not my tragedy!

Your tragedy.

Although as a relentless narrator sort, I can describe your tragedy so accurately and with such status detail as to make you believe I think it’s my tragedy, I suppose.