Marriage and Coming Out

Karen and I picked August 13,1966 as the big date. Then there was the problem of where. We both agreed on Pensacola, and since I had to told her that I was Episcopalian she suggested Christ's Church. It was a beautiful Byzantine structure at the end of Palafox Street in downtown Pensacola. The structure was majestic and inspiring so I agreed albeit somewhat reluctantly.

The problem was that I wasn't yet an Episcopalian. I had started to attend Episcopal services as a student at William & Mary, but I had never bothered to be confirmed. Episcopal Church law commands that to be lawfully married at least one member of the couple must be a confirmed Episcopalian. Karen, a lifelong Southern Baptist , didn't qualify, nor did I. There was one thing that I certainly knew about the Episcopal Church: it had inherited the Roman Catholic trait of keeping meticulous records of its members. I was caught, and I had to confess to Karen my lie.

Surprisingly, she didn't seem to care. Indeed, she decided to convert so we could be married at Christ's Church. We were married there in a high Episcopal wedding on August 13th. A reception followed at the Pensacola Garden Club. That afternoon, we left in my '63 Le Mans for our Honeymoon in New Orleans the first night of which we spent in Mobile, Alabama.

By September we had moved into Married Student Housing at the College of Law. We lived in a ground floor one bedroom apartment. John and Sharon, the couple that had introduced us, lived on the second floor. Later that fall Karen became pregnant. We were both over-joyed as we both desperately wanted children, but the celebration was short-lived. In the second month Karen miscarried. A second miscarriage followed in about five months. A specialist diagnosed Karen as having only a minimal chance of carrying a child full term. The news was devastating, but we loved each other, and decided to carry on.

This mutual decision and Karen's decision to convert illustrates the depth of our love for each other. For a Southern Baptist to convert to Episcopal is a great leap. To the Southern Baptist, the Episcopals are little more than Roman Catholics in disguise. Many Southern Baptists, along with many evangelic Protestant denominations, seem to hold little admiration for their Catholic ancestors as the memories of the 14th Century are still to be fresh. Karen's decision to convert shows that she indeed loved me. Likewise my decision to accept that she might never bear me any children illustrates the depth of my love for her.

The one and cardinal flaw on my part was the ethical question. I was entering marriage with a lie far greater than the religious issue. I know that I should have told her that I was Gay. While her response might have been is problematic, it would have freed her from the pain that was to come.

In January of 1967, I was offered, and I accepted, a position with a prestigious, old-line law firm in Jacksonville, Florida: Milan, Ramsey, Martin & Ade. Karen and I moved to a 2 bedroom apartment on the south-west side of town. Now earning a decent salary, in the Summer of 1967 we bought a modest 2 bedroom, 1 and 1/2 bath home in the Westfield Section in the southeast part of town. Westfield was known as the place for up-and-comers. It was surrounded by the exclusive Ortega Forrest Section.

One of the other associates in the firm, Vincent, or Vin, handled private placement adoptions. After discussing the matter with Karen and getting her consent, I approached Vin and told him that we were interested in adopting. Vin told me that he had a client, who was expecting "any day now," but he added one caveat. "If you and Karen are ready for the responsibility." I asked him what he meant to which he replied with a smile, and said, "She's expecting twins." After discussing it with Karen, we decided that we were ready to take the plunge, but Karen ask me to inquire, first, if there was any way to determine the sex of the twins. The next day, I inquired of Vin. He answered quickly, "Yes there is. It's two boys both born early this morning." The date was January 20, 1968.

That evening, we saw the twins for the first time. They had been born premature and were in incubators. The first born was slightly larger than the second and weighed 7 lbs. 2oz.. The second born weigh-ed only 6 lbs, 3 oz.. It was touch-and-go with the second born, but fortunately he steadily gained weigh and grew into a happy and healthy baby. That night because Vin had assured us that approval of the adoption was a certainty, we discussed names. Karen wanted to name the first born Steven, after Steven Cord, a character on her favorite TV program -- Peyton Place. I agreed provided that I had control over the spelling and middle names. For the first born I choose a middle name associated with our family since the days when England was first occupied by the Norman French. That name was: Chandler. For a spelling of the first name I choose the old English style: Stephen. Thus, the child was named: Stephen Chandler.

The name for the second born presented a problem. We both agreed that because they were twins the name should start with an S, but what should be the name? We both agreed that 'Samuel' was inappropriate -- too Jewish. Likewise, 'Sean' was too Irish. Then I remembered my old "favorite" from high school, Stuart G. We both liked Stuart [I insisted on that spelling]. For a middle name, I choose another old Norman first name: Pleydell. There had been several Pleydells living near Swindon and Wilts, [Kent], in the 12 and 13 hundreds. Thus, the child was named: Stuart Pleydell.

In the summer we were visited by my parents. They brought along my elderly Aunts Dallas and Agnes. Dallas was my Mom's Sister and, thus, my Aunt. Agnes was my Grandmother's Sister and, thus, my Great Aunt. Being born in 1895, Agnes was my link to the past. Almost all that I know of the family in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and all of the photos, came from Agnes. She was a jolly old codger with a great sense of humor. The only sad thing that I ever heard her say was, with respect to the twins, "Too bad, I will not be around to see them when they are grown." Somewhere there's a picture of Agnes on our lawn in Westfield holding the twins in her arms. God knows I wish they could have known her. She was to die in the early 1990s having lived longer than anyone else I know in our family line.

During the period between 1966 and 1970, I led a heterosexual lifestyle. I was a regular Family Guy with two cute fraternal twins and a good looking wife. "Could I pull it off?" I wondered. Life was full of the joys and funny stories that come with having kids. One morning, I woke up very early. The twins were sleeping in bassinets in our bedroom. When I walked over to Stuart's bassinet, I looked in the predawn morning half-light and saw a dark fluid around the child. My immediate thought was that it was blood. I screamed "KAREN GET UP!!" She did so and had the common sense to turn on the light. That's when I discovered that the fluid was diarrhea. Young Fathers are the worse fools.

Then in 1970 Karen got pregnant again. We kept our fingers crossed remembering the doctor's diagnosis. During that year we sold the house and moved into a rental home on Martingale Lane in Westfield. This move was occasioned because the cost of the twins' doctors and hospitalization, along with the cost of furniture for our first home, was proving too much to deal with on my salary. Vin didn't charge for his services, but we were required to assume responsibility for the twins' mother's hospitalization and the twins doctor bills when under care in Riverside Hospital. Then I received an offer of a promotion. I was asked to move to Atlanta to work directly for the General Solicitor, the second highest man in the Southern Bell Legal Department. Vin and I had earlier taken jobs with Southern Bell's Legal Department. I was worried about the effect of a move on Karen's pregnancy, but after discussing it with her we agreed that this was an offer that I could not refuse.

We moved into another rental home on Allison Drive, adjacent to the exclusive 2 acre lot Buck-head Section in Atlanta. In September Karen delivered our 'Miracle Baby', James Patterson Goddard, born September 28,1970. We would soon nickname him 'Jamie.' By calling Jamie a 'miracle baby' I don't mean to denigrate Steve and Stu. In fact, Stu and Steve were just as much a miracle. Starting out as premature babies essentially unable to sustain themselves without an incubator, their survival was a demonstration that both were destined to play major rolls in our lives, and that they were destined for some form of greatness.

Stu also had his share of close calls and miraculous escapes. One day he was playing by the bay window that overlooked the driveway from our recreation den on Martingale Lane. The driveway was two parallel strips of concrete separated by a median strip of grass. My attention was diverted for a minute; when I looked back Stuart was gone. I ran over to the window and looked. All that I could see was the window screen obviously pushed out of the window and laying in the grass in the median strip. I ran outside to find Stuart casually laying in the median strip on his back in the prone position, basking in the sunshine. The fall had only been about 6 feet, so he wasn't seriously hurt.

While living at Allison Drive we purchased our first real car -- a Pontiac Grand Safari Station Wagon with power everything. I also purchased a small white Datsun for the commute to work. Shortly thereafter, we purchased our first real home in Atlanta. I know that the reader must think that I'm kidding with all this English stuff, but I am not. The subdivision that we moved into was called Canterbury Heights. Our home was at 1262 Chaucer Lane, as God is my witness. We fixed up Chaucer Lane, installing central heating and air conditioning, wall-papering the kitchen, laying new wall-to-wall carpet in the den, and replacing the bathroom fixtures. Being the athletic machine that I was, I got a hernia removing the old toilet. We also purchased a cherry Queen Anne Dining table with eight matching dining chairs, the seats upholstered in gold.

Although we were to have a much grander home in the future, Chaucer Lane always had a special place in my heart. I remember cutting the grass while Steve and Stu raced their Big Wheels down the driveway to the barrier that I had erected as their signal to turn to the grass, avoiding entering the street. Chaucer Lane had 3 bedrooms, one for Steve and Stu and a smaller one for Jamie. Steve and Stu had identical cribs. Steve was a rocker and would rock himself to sleep for years to come. I obsessively concentrated on the lawn. We had never had one when I was a kid and I was determined that Steve, Stu and Jamie would not have the embarrassment that I had endured living in the only house on the street without a well manicured lawn. So the lawn needed to be meticulous. I guess this is how keeping up with the Jones' starts.

Despite having all the surroundings of a heterosexual existence, the bug was still in me. On a business trip to New York in 1970, I stayed at the Hilton on 6th Avenue. I ventured into Times Square where I met a young man named Fred. I took him back to the hotel for sex. The next morning, I was filled with guilt and shame. I honestly expected to be greeted by New York detectives when I checked out, but to my relief I was not. This was adultery, plain and simple, but I sensed some sort of relief that here I was 2000 miles from my home. I soon began to realize, or rationalize, that there was no way anyone would know, except me of course, and it only causes pain when someone finds out. The ability to keep it a secret would be unfortunate actually as it would encourage me to be more cavalier in the future.

Then I attended a surprise birthday party for one of our neighbors, Bryan as I recall. I was distinctly interested in him, but never managed to be with him. At the party, all the men were to one side of the room and the women on the other. We were discussing places to eat when one guy mentioned The Prince George's Inn. Laughing out loud someone exclaimed "There's nothing but Fags at that place!" I would note that comment with interest.

The next time Karen and the kids went to Pensacola for a visit, I had dinner at The Prince George's Inn. I met the piano player, a cute blond Irish man named Allan. After closing, I took him to his apartment for sex. Oddly enough, it was located directly on my way home. These adventures didn't make me more comfortable with being Gay, but rather they re-enforced once again how easy it is to be gay and get away with it in straight society.

Allan was the first Gay person that I met and could call a friend. I would stop by his apartment for an after-dinner drink and conversation and, maybe a 'quicky,' after late nights at the office. I had now moved from having one-night stand affairs to the more perpetual kind that often develop into intimate feelings. This was a far more dangerous type of affair, one that would be much harder to walk away from and to hide. I did not see that, though, perhaps because I did not want to recognize the fact that I was coming out of the closet now in a very dangerous way.

The reader should note that in this chronicle, I am not using phony names. The people that I mention, or have mentioned, actually existed. They are identified by their real names. I am not concerned about "outing" them. In retrospective from the 21st Century, and given my knowledge of the plague that was to devastate the Gay Community in the last quarter of the 20th Century, I am reasonably certain, but with a heavy heart, that they are probably dead. As a lawyer, I am familiar with the legal maxim that "You can't libel the dead," and that "Truth is an absolute defense."

Then I discovered my first Gay Bar. It was called the Armory, probably an old building used to store munitions during the occupation after the Civil War. It was an old fashioned Gay place with windows painted black so you couldn't see in and no signs outside. The entry was a plain red door off the parking lot. Inside, a Mafioso door keeper checked your I.D. to keep the clientele exclusive and perhaps safe. Inside was a thrilling world with disco music blaring, good looking men everywhere staring at each other in the hope of some eye contact. The art is called "cruising." One night, I met a fellow name Tom. Since he lived at a great distance, I just took him home to Chaucer Lane for sex. Karen and the kids were out-of-town so once again I was taking my adulterous lifestyle one step closer to the edge.

One of my sons has described my divorce as being "out-of-context." And so it was. To the outsider, and to my children, we were the perfect happy family. My wife and I never fought, except, infrequently, usually over my drinking. We never separated. There were simply no signs of trouble, or clouds on the horizon. The divorce came like a sudden thunder clap on a hot, sultry afternoon - at least to those looking inwards.

The first trigger for the divorce occurred in 1973 when I received a promotion. I was asked to move to headquarters in New York City to be the attorney in charge of legal issues concerning radio-telephone and cellular services. While I was looking for a house, the company put me up in a hotel, the Shelbourne-Murray Hill. It was adjacent to a whole host of Gay establishments. -- the Uncle Charlies' South and North bars, the Uncle Charlies' and Kountry Kitchen restaurants, and the Barefoot Boy disco. All of these were associated with an especially creepy old Queen, Lou Katz, who eventually went to jail for murdering his male prostitute "Lover."

After much searching, I found a home for us in a small community town in New Jersey. It was a three bedroom, two baths, double car garage. The home is more fully described in Chapter 1 of this chronicle. We moved in in September 1973.

Looking back, the cause of the divorce was threefold. First, I was frustrated with my job, and with the system that put me in it. I have already written about my job. The fault that I found with the system was that after all those years working and studying, to say nothing about becoming Editor-in-Chief of the Law Review, the best that the system could do for me was a position as a drone in the Legal Department of a monopoly. So why not get another job? I tried, interviewing with several Atlanta firms, but the answer was always the same, "No thanks." Underpinning this "No" was the thought I am sure that "He's just a corporate lawyer, and can't possibly hold up under the stress of private practice." There was another unstated reason. My salary was quite high, the equivalent to a partner's draw. In private practice, what a partner receives as compensation, i.e., his draw, depends wholly on the income that he generates for the firm from his clients, i.e. his attribution. If I could have brought along with me to those firms clients like Southern Bell or AT&T, the job offers would have poured in, but the privilege of being able to do so was reserved to ex-General Counsels and ex-general Attorneys, not to mere attorneys like me not withstanding my high sounding but largely empty title. In short, in private practice it's not what you know but the client that you bring with you that counts. Unfortunately, I had none.

The second cause of the divorce was the 'malaise' -- to use Jimmy Carter's infamous word -- that effected the country in the 1970's. We had lost in Vietnam, our military was a bunch of pot-heads and junkies, and we were being pushed around like the skinny kid in the school yard surrounded by a pack of bullies. Yet we had more power in our ICBMs and 600 ship navy to devastate any tinhorn dictator or Mullah who vomited messages of hate to his ignorant and backward followers. Where's Teddy Roosevelt when you need him. Instead, we had Jimmy Carter who smiled and mouthed platitudes while the Russians and crazy Rag Heads wiped their boots in his face.

The third cause of the divorce was the allure of the Gay world. In the early 70's, it was chic to be Gay. Post-Stonewall, the threat of police raids had disappeared. Gays were setting the fashion trends. It seemed an exciting world to join compared with the monotony of Corporate America. It was starting to seem safe to be Gay.

The immediate cause of the divorce, however, had little to do with these ''Big Picture issue. I had been dating a kid from the nearby community of Whippany, Richard Palumbo. He wrote me an effusive letter, which Karen found and confronted me. The terms of endearment in the letter were so strong that mere denial wouldn't work. I was tired and maybe a bit hung over, but I had had it with lying about myself. So I went ahead and confessed to being Gay. I was out, this time for good.