Layla Eric Clapton stole Pattie Boyd from George Harrison. This is common knowledge by now. What's less well known is that Eric Clapton stole my father from my mother. Our nuclear family was another casualty of the undying allure of sex, drugs, and platinum-selling vinyl. I used to wonder what would steal my own marital happiness. Being named after a Clapton song is a mixed blessing. There's the instant recognition factor, sure, but it also provides every would-be suitor a ready-made pickup line: "Layla--like the song? Were your parents listening to that song when your mom got knocked up?" "No," I always reply, "but wouldn't it be cool if my name were Bruiser, 'cause then our names would rhyme!" In seventh grade, Garret Paulson ventured a little lyrical perversion and taunted me with "Layla, you've got me on my knees; Layla, I'm begging, darlin', please." I got the last laugh, or rather, twenty or so seventh-graders at Presley Middle School did, when I swung my field-hockey stick into his groin. Talk about being on your knees. . . . Live and learn, I guess. The name choice was my father's doing. "Layla" was his favorite song, and my mom didn't argue--she liked the idea of me not having a popular name. Hers is Sue, and she was surrounded by Sues all her life, constantly answering when she wasn't called and feeling like just one among many. From the start, she wanted me to stand out--thought it was my destiny--so she went along with Layla. And dressed me in a tie-dyed Onesie. After all the years of having my name, for some reason I still get a kick out of hearing it--almost every time. The exception is the case of its being barked at me as if I wasn't only nine feet away from the person shouting it. This time, it's Brett, my husband. "Layla!" he yells, again. I'll tell you why I haven't answered: because I know the acoustics of this house. I know when someone can hear you and when they can't. I know because I live here. And because I'm not an idiot. Yet he thinks that when I call his name and he's in the very next room--looking at a game on the TV or screwing around on his computer or whatever the case may be--I don't know he can totally hear me. He'll ignore me and then act all innocent. It insults my intelligence at its very core. So I'm returning the favor. He knows damn well I can hear him. Just like he heard me this morning when I was trying to get his attention. Of course, his boy Troy Aikman was talking on the TV at the time, and I knew he'd want to watch. My ignoring him seems petty, I realize, but he's driven me to it. We weren't always like this--just lately. And I know I'm the one who sounds like the jerk in this situation, but I'm only reacting to the way he's been treating me. Which doesn't make it better, I suppose, but it at least puts things into context. "Could you not hear me?" Brett asks, as he storms around our place looking for something. "What?" I say. "Did you say something?" "I was calling you from the other room." "Oh, I'm sorry," I reply, genuine as can be. "I didn't hear you." Just like you never seem to hear me anymore unless it's convenient. "Have you seen my keys?" he asks. "I think so. In the kitchen. Or maybe on top of the hamper. Yeah, the hamper. Definitely on top of the hamper." He walks toward the bathroom without uttering anything resembling a thank-you, and I hear the keys jingle as he grabs them. Then I hear the front door open. "See you at the game?" he calls out Excerpted from Family Affair by Caprice Crane All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
