*The other day I ran into a local acquaintance while I was out with Diego. He’s a dog person, too; good with my big boy. He mentioned that he’d just met Shirley’s big Newfie, who I must’ve met as well, ‘what a giant of a dog!‘ – except I haven’t met the dog, or spoken to Shirley in years, which I didn’t say. He was out on his bike; I was out with my mini-pony; let’s not go there. In rural communities, close friendships are public knowledge, like acknowledged teams in the rural landscape; the end of same not as much. So yes, I didn’t get into it, but…here we go.
Friends come, friends go. Often it’s as simple as they move to another state, or country. Sometimes they show their true or different colors in a friendship ending fashion, causing a hurt or shock so deep that the connection is severed. Sometimes, friends die, leaving a gaping hole.
There is also a subset of humans who are friends when you are providing them with a service of sorts. In my case, this was my being useful to their children. Once that time was at an end, so too was the friendship, although in general this wasn’t immediately apparent; there are graduation gifts to buy, after all – but most seem to cease friendly-ing shortly after the kid in question is off to college or not long after. Each case is, of course, different. And, when it comes to friendship, each to their own. And how.
I am ashamed to admit it, but I stayed friends with Shirley even after she told me what she did to her brothers, because we had a lot in common, and had been close friends for a long time, a decade at least. Some breaches take time. The relationship – friendly acquaintance to close confidantes – solidified over mutual stress: Shirley placed her aunt in the local nursing home the same month I settled my mother there. We did this with little familial help or support, and oh boy did we bond over that outrage! The thing was, my outrage faded over time; it had to, for the sake of my own mental and physical health.
Still, Shirley helped me remove old carpeting in the house I was renovating. I helped Shirley clear out and clean her aunt’s home. Shirley’s son played tennis; I coached the team. Shirley was a college educated ex-cheerleader born locally; so was I. Ra Ra Ra! Shirley’s husband was and is named Fred; I have a brother named Fred. Both Fred’s were very respectable local businessmen, solid citizens, and – let’s be honest – total stuffed shirts who had inherited or been given their successful small town enterprises. Rural nepo babies, bay-bee.
Yet there were differences between us, too. Shirley was older than I was by a handful of years, what I call a true Boomer, with my younger self a member of the overlooked chem-trail generation, the Obama gen. Also, Shirley didn’t like her brother’s wife, Sandy, and was open about it. I was deliberately positive or positively neutral about my sister-in-law because if brother Fred is happy, fine by me. Plus, my brother’s choice of co-captain sure runs a tight ship (their spotless home, and well-considered honey-do lists), which I respect. Mostly.
When we became close, Shirley’s mom was already gone, a victim of cancer, and her aunt died of cancer just one month after moving into the long-term care facility; my mom lingered there for four long years, and my dad died almost a decade before Shirley’s pop, who was also, ultimately, placed in the local nursing home, suffering from dementia.
Once her son was out of high school – no more tennis or drama club – things did seem to cool between us a bit. But I was busy and my life was changing, too, so – let it go, Moj. But there also came a point – a crack in the facade – when I told Shirley I couldn’t hear any more about her awful, terrible, horrible brothers, and that witch, Sandy. I liked her brother, the local one, and had nothing against the one who lived in Oregon who of course wasn’t as able to help her out, caring for their dad. I liked Sandy, too – still do.
This request, that she stop chewing my ears off trashing various family members (I did not use the word chew), did not go over well. Oops, and c’est la vie, but my ears literally, actually hurt. I’d started holding the phone away from my head while she went on and on and on and on about these terrible men, her father’s sons.
The real break, however, came after she called one day to ask my opinion on changing her dad’s will. He had been in the nursing home, where she visited him daily for his entire, years-long, residence (did I mention her impressive martyr complex?) for over a year by that point. While she was unable to entirely disinherit her brothers, she explained, she was able to alter the will to deny them access to most of the monies and property. What did I think of that? I told her I thought it was a terrible idea, unethical and improper, and that, having done it, she could never go back. – In doing this, Shirley, you would be throwing any chance of ever healing the breach with your brothers down the toilet. Is that really what you want?
I explained I had an opportunity to get sole ownership of my parents’ house – but had not done so because to do that to my siblings would be wrong, just plain wrong, especially as the parent who wanted to do it – give me their house – was my mom, who like Shirley’s dad was suffering from dementia. Also, Shirley, any attorney who would help you do this, is doing something illegal, in my view (I am not an attorney).
Well, she said, I’ve already done it. – Oh! Oh!? Then why did you ask me my opinion? – I just wanted to know what you thought. That’s all. – Well, Shirley, I think it’s shitty. – Fine. But they deserve nothing. I’ve done all the work. – But it’s his will, your dad’s, and he cannot change it in his current state, Shirley, it’s simply wrong! – I’m getting another call. I have to go.
She hung up.
We limped along for a few months after that, but I knew the friendship would never recover. I didn’t want it to. I also told her brothers and Sandy what she had done, after her father’s death. Maybe it was too late for them to make any changes, to call her out legally or otherwise, but running into all of them in our rural town – the west coast brother here for a class reunion – it felt necessary to come clean.
Was I angry at my siblings for not doing more to support my parents as they made their way down the exit ramp? Yes, I was. And, I did my personal best for the ‘rents, because I wanted to feel good about myself ten and twenty years down the line – which I do. My siblings consciences, however, are their own business, but disinheriting them because I did all the work, work that occurred over a decade and then some? Never. Never.
Sometimes friends show their true colors, and those colors are ugly. So, no – I’m not friends with Shirley anymore.