The Gong Show

The weekend was tense -- I felt vulnerable and victimized and I put a lot of pressure on J. He understood why I was wigging over the intrusion and wanted my key back pronto, but part of him needed to believe that there was nothing untoward about what had happened. I am sure the parents of Son of Sam had that same emotion when all of America started pointing fingers.

I agreed to let J. massage this situation. He made time to visit his mother, presumably so she could not hang up on him, and prepared his argument like a litigator. It was time for the nonsense to stop.

My hero. Only with a much better alter ego than Underdog's Shoe Shine Boy and a considerably more confidence-inspiring voice.

At the appointed hour, he appeared and began his reasoned, heartfelt approach. And inevitably, Endora ran out of excuses and explanations. Loathe to simply admit to wrong doing on anyone's behalf, she dodged any further introspection by hurling a grenade of her own.

Months before, when I was still enjoying the relative warmth of J.'s family's loving embrace, I'd had a meaningful, heartfelt conversation with Endora. I shared worries and joys and thoughts I might share with my own mother over a cup of coffee. Now, many months and miles of winding road later, in a Fantasy Island style reversal of fortune, she chose to use my words against me, and came out with a zinger that stopped J. cold.

Gong! Conversation over.

That afternoon, I asked J. for the play by play, which he matter of factly related in straight-forward Walter Cronkite just-the-facts-no-commentary fashion.

I gasped. My turn to clutch the pearls.

"Did you say that?" J. asked.

"Not those words, J.," I replied. And then I went on to explain how Endora came to know what she had so artfully re-engineered and re-purposed into a searing Spiderman comic book beaker of acid to J.'s face.

Make no mistake, Endora had the cute little wash and set hairdo and the Penelope Pitstop pink lipstick, but on the inside lie the hard-boiled heart of Simon Bar Sinister. No Sweet Polly Purebread, she.

"J. why do you think she said that? I mean, said that, then?" It made no sense at all. Can no one in this family hold up their end of an argument responsibly?

"I dunno. It was really hurtful."

"Well, I don't think hurting you was her motivation. I think it was her desperate attempt to stop you from continuing down the logical path you'd started on with your confrontation. She could not let you make your closing argument. "

And what better way to knock someone off of what you think they perceive is their moral high ground than to shake the very foundation from which they preach?

She was not trying to hurt J.---what mother does that? Hurting him was just an unfortunate, yet evidently acceptable, side effect of her real intention. She was trying to stop him - stop his words, so she did not hear them - by making him suddenly less confident about why on Earth he'd defend me.

An adroit strike at his heart.

I dialed the phone. I am sure the suspicious timing of the appearance of my number on her Caller ID had her, and Em and Chuck (who were busily preparing to become squatters) and Sheila, who would be supervising the preparations to squat, all running around like Fleegle, Bingo, Drooper and Snork in the Banana Splits Adventure Hour. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BEcKIf90qYU)

At the sound of the tone, I greeted her cordially, and identified myself by first and last name, all business. I then said that the reason for my call was to talk with her about a comment that she'd made to J. that she had attributed to me. I left my number and asked for a return phone call.

Uh-oh, Chongo!