Gordon Brittas: Too Much Of A Good Thing

I suppose it's been going on for years. Certainly I can remember back to the day when there were no uncle Simons or cousin Bretts. We were happy then – but aren't we happy now? I didn't really notice a change when she became an apprentice masseuse working for the London Jets' physical therapist. I just thought she should come home so she could spend more time with the kids. It all seemed clear sailing when she announced the appearance of some shirttail cousin who happened to have five sick children that desperate needed tending the second Wednesday of every month – I thought she was a saint walking on earth to do such a task. I did see things get noticeably better when she started seeing that doctor chap and started taking these pills. I'm not a buffoon!

Ah, but perhaps it's me. I do get so wrapped up in my dream, y'see. I have this dream, that people everywhere can be united under a common cause, be it art, beauty, or, yes, sport. I'm always working to this end, helping the staff with their problems, keeping things tidy, making my surroundings pleasant, and making sure that everyone's needs are attended to. A happy staff makes for happy customers, and mightn't they, in turn, spread that happiness as well? As the manager of a community center, wouldn't I love to see the community rally behind some commonality, such as racquetball? Of course I would. But, did I want to sacrifice my dearest Helen for it? Never.

Ever since I was a lad, I've never been keen on detail. "Seeing 'sum' in a story problem means addition," "I before E," "Gordon, our goal is on that side…" all things I heard a thousand times in grade school. They always escaped my grasp. I'm a visionary, y'see. I look at the big picture; it's never steered me wrong. I also try to keep emotion out of it – so messy. A good manager's judgement should never be clouded by feeling. I've always prided myself on running an orderly household based on my managerial style, but what has it gotten me but an unfaithful wife and a disrespectful child!

I remember the night I realized the truth about Helen. She came to bed half out of her mind on champagne or something, giggling, makeup smudged, hair awry, clothes a mess. She thought I was asleep, but I wasn't. I heard as she read aloud a love letter, using only the bathroom light to read by. Even whispering, her voice sounded louder than thunder to my ears, let me tell you. He loved her, he worshipped her, he thought of her as Venus de Milo with arms. "As do I!" I thought, "As do I!" It was unbelievable, shocking. Why on earth would she have to stray? Inconceivable. So I lay there the whole night, just thinking about it. And by morning, I'd tucked the whole thing away, part and parcel, just like that, under my "To Do" list. Sort laundry, buy Colin a Band-Aid, confront wife about affair. Simple as that. I've done hundreds of such unpleasant tasks in my various professions; what could be so different about this one?

That was a "To Do" that never got done. Somehow, it kept getting shifted to the bottom of the list, where it's been for the past four years. Her uncles Simon have come and gone and she thinks I don't notice. Sometimes I even wonder if that might contribute to her depression. Women, who can fathom them? Not me! That's why I run my family like I run my business: with logic, and a firm, calm hand.

I try to give her her privacy. Women do like that, I'm sure. I don't really know, of course, but I can sometimes guess by her mood and carriage where she's been. I don't ask her about it, though. Trust and privacy are integral to marriage, y'see. I believe wholeheartedly that trust is the foundation on which all else is built. Even communication can't happen without it, and good communication is indispensable in a good marriage. My Helen and I, we've always communicated well.

I trust my wife, so I don't attack her with accusations about where she's been and what she's been doing. This is right, this is the proper way to treat one's wife. Absolutely good and proper, said her last doctor, to trust. Bit dangerous, said one of my old co-workers. I like to think of trust as the former: good, solid, proper, correct. All the things I like best, eh?

I've been thinking as I look at her, late at night, by the light from the bathroom, that maybe there can be such as too much of a good thing.

I'll talk to her tomorrow. Right after I shine my shoes, see off the children, and read the paper.

Then I'll talk to her.

Author's notes: This story poured out of my pen at one A.M. the night I saw the first series finale of The Brittas Empire. The last scene, with Helen and Laura at the hospital, was both funny and touching, and it got me thinking. The scene (in a previous episode) in which Helen comes home from visiting "Uncle Simon" dressed as a nurse, stretches the plausibility of Gordon's obliviousness to the maximum. Could he really be that dumb? Could anyone? This story says, no. The more interesting question, however, is why...?

As always, comments and criticism are welcome!