Rosemary Remembered by Susan Wittig Albert Page B

was only a theory, with no hard evidence to back it. Unfortunately, it reminded me of a faulty form of argument that one of my philosophy professors had labeled the "undistributed middle." Abusers murder; Robbins is an abuser; therefore, Robbins is a murderer. But while that kind of fallacy would have earned me an F on a logic exam, it's constantly used in subtle and devious ways in the media and even in court— especially in court. I've used it, too, more times than I can say. I'm not proud of it, but there it is. Guilty, Your Honor. Guilty of the undistributed middle.
    The heat got to me after a while and I went back inside. Brian and McQuaid came downstairs to set the table. They didn't say anything about their conversation, but I could tell from Brian's sullen face what he thought about his father's restrictions. Still, as we sat down to eat, we were decendy polite to one another. The meal was peaceful. But not for long. The enchilada casserole was just making its second round when the phone rang.
    "I'll get it." Brian knocked his chair over as he bolted from the table. A minute later, he was back with the cordless phone. "For you, Dad," he said, handing it over. "It's Mom."
    "Oh, shit." McQuaid dropped his fork as he took the phone. "Hello, Sally," he said in a guarded voice. There was a long silence, while he listened. Then he got up and carried the phone into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. Whatever he had to say to Sally, he didn't want to say in front of Brian. Or me.
    Sally and McQuaid's ten-year marriage had been a casualty of his profession, at least as McQuaid saw it. I'd never checked with Sally, whom I barely know. As I understood it, she had never wanted him to be a cop, and the uncertainty, danger, and low pay — especially the pay —eventually got to her. After a long bout with depression, alcohol, and tranquilizers, she fell apart. When she came back from detox, she sued for divorce. It was a good thing she didn't want custody of the boy. Given her history of emotional instability, McQuaid would've fought it, and the conflict would have been terrible for Brian. As it was, she didn't contest, and the court awarded him custody.
    That was five years ago. Sally sees her son a couple of weekends a month, when she can take time from her work as a sales representative for a multinational firm based in
    San Antonio. She still has problems with alcohol and depression, but she's seemed better recently. So much better, in fact, that she's begun to talk about Brian coming to live with her. McQuaid doesn't seem to take it seriously, but I do. After all, she's Brian's mother. It's natural for her to want to spend more time with her son.
    Brian turned to me and I noticed once again how handsome he is, like his father. "She's bugging him about me living with her, ain't she?" he said, serious now.
    "Isn't," I said automatically, and added, with caution, "If you want to know what they're talking about, you'll have to ask your dad."
    It's odd. Before McQuaid and I moved in together, Brian and I enjoyed an easy, uncomplicated familiarity. We high-fived when we met and bestowed the Vulcan blessing when we said good-bye and even occasionally hugged each other. But now that I'm in loco parentis, as it were, things are different. I'm never quite sure what to do, how to act. Am I too strict, or not strict enough? Too affectionate, or not affectionate enough? Too much mom, too much four-star general, too much pal? What exactly is this thing called mothering?
    This issue isn't a new one, of course. It has its roots deep in my past. As a mother, mine left something to be desired: an alcoholic who drank to forget that her lawyer husband hated her because she drank. As a father, mine was occasionally present but always absent: a workaholic who substituted the law for a life and money for love. As a child, I yearned for each of them, for both of them. For a mother to hold me, a father to teach me. For a normal family. Not too