When he doesn’t come home the long arm of the law is my first thought.
Men get put in cages.
I love men.
Jail, prison, or detention may be my first thought but it doesn’t mean that I stay there. I vacillate between that and the worst of thoughts. That he has died and no one will contact me.
Hurts so bad, when he doesn’t come home.
It’s happened three times in the past decade that I remember acutely.
The first was The Plant Whisperer, arrested at a routine traffic stop.
That experience went on to include incarceration for 72 hours in Twin Towers in Los Angeles, which houses who knows how many inmates, I know that some 20,000 are processed through (in and out) every day.
Claimed as wood by a gang. Good times.
Meanwhile I fret and weep and call hospitals and look online and eventually somehow figure out that he is inside. Call his family, get no help. Call my own and friends and scrimp and somehow I bail him out.
Interviewing lawyers, we eventually go with a gay Armenian who gets all the charges dropped.
Eventually he pays me back.
By the time the police let him go I had already gone to the police. So much for coordination. The police I went to never got the memo from the police who picked him up, and vice versa. There was no public transportation running and so he walked clear across Istanbul to get home, an hour before dawn.
And the third was my Favorite Lover, put in jail for forty-eight hours for a misunderstanding.
When he doesn’t come home it’s the waiting. Not knowing. He is supposed to be here. In my arms.
I am frozen. Unable to do anything else. Consumed with worry for him. Waiting for him.
Is he detained?
The cops or the Sheriffs or what the fuck in this case Barcelona what the hell I don’t even know which police to go to or what they are called (mozzos).
Is he hurt? Did he have some cardiac arrest or car accident or cartwheel himself over the edge of something? Which hospitals do I call?
In the US – it was the police that helped me. Surprising that they did, but information in the US is open. In Istanbul, the police were useless even though they were the cause.
In Spain, it is the police that help me. I fill out a report and they inform me, and inform me when he will be released.
By this time I’ve received his psychic messages and asked the Pendulum the same, and all gave me the same answer.
But still I always worry. Is he dead?
The Spanish authorities don’t officially give out information due to data privacy laws, but showing up and looking concerned and kind can go a long way, I see. They guy gave me a “you didn’t hear it from me” line.
And all of them say the same thing
“Well he could have contacted you…”
“He had one phone call…”
Yeah. Like he knows my number.
Like shame isn’t more powerful than reason.
I rock. Self-soothing. Loving. Try to keep eating. Thinking slowly of any ideas or people that could help me. Open myself.
Talk to friends. They shake their heads, wondering why I put up with it.
The yawning, aching feeling from the pit of my stomach to the back of my throat. Concern. Worry.
What if he never comes home?
This one likes to disappear. He disappears again not two weeks after this happens. This time on his own recognizance. Do I want to get inured to when he doesn’t come home?
I love him so much I forgive him the moment he’s back, only to have another incident occur. And another.
I think of the fisherman’s wives. Of the soldier’s lovers. Of all those women who have waited for men to come home, and of all the men who never have.
When he doesn’t come home, I should just go on with my life. Not expect to hear from him. Release him into freedom, throw him back into the sea – and of course he will return.
But trust. But the pattern. The knowing that men love to throw other men in cages for whatever reason, and that sometimes the only way out of them is for a woman to notice when he doesn’t come home.