Chapter Twelve

Venting to Rachel always made me feel better.  I told her how much money George had lent Felicia.

     

     “Relatively speaking, doesn’t that make us the sane ones?” Rachel said, and we both laughed long and 

hard, even though it wasn’t funny.  Not really.  Sometimes you have to laugh because otherwise, the

 nonsense of things will leave you in a twisted heap.                           

 George and I drove home.  He sat in the passenger seat staring out the window.

     "How’d you like the Groovy Smoothie?" I asked. 

     "It was great.  I like Janie.  She’s got a pretty smile.  That music they were playing got me to thinking 

about the Beatles," he said. "You know that song, ' Ticket to Ride?'" he asked.

     "She's got a ticket to ri-ide," I sang and giggled, my tears and talk with Rachel had released some

 pressure.   George chimed in:

      "She's got a ticket to ri-i—ide.”  We both sang the finish.  George tilted his head a little to the right.  He 

bounced the fore-finger of his right hand in the air in tiny semi-circles like the conductor of a miniature 

symphony and nodded his head to the familiar rhythm.  I car-danced, bouncing up and down in the driver’s

 seat, nodding my chin up and down over one shoulder and then the other.

 

     "Hey!  You know it," he said.  George smiled like a kid.  "When I was stationed in Taiwan that was the

only Beatles song they had on the jukebox in the Officer's Club.  I'd go in there every night after work and

put my quarter in.  They'd know it was me doing it when they heard that song."  His voice trailed off and he 

got a distant look in his eye.  He'd been transported to a different time and place, this tune his magic carpet

. 

As we drove along in silence, I remembered more lyrics to the song: 

I think I'm gonna be sad.  I think it's today, yeah..

The girl that's driving me mad is going away. 

She said that living with me is bringing her down, yeah. 

For she would never be free when I was around....

Before she gets to saying goodbye,

She ought to think twice,

She ought to do right by me...

     "Say, what year was that song number one?" I asked.  He beamed.  He put the forefinger of his 

right hand into the air pointing skyward.

 "Released, April, 1965.  Made number one by May!" he said

.

     Amazing.  This part of his mind was a music encyclopedia.  After he heard the first few words of any 

song, the recording artist's name, a one sentence bio of the artist, and the year the hit was first recorded

rolled off George’s tongue effortlessly.  But George’s love of music wasn’t why George paid two bits every

night to hear “Ticket to Ride” play in Taiwan.  He played it every night because of his wife, Opal. 

Driving along, we fell into silence again and I remembered the day George told me how he met Opal.   

     The whole family had gathered at our house.  Everyone went outside to hunt Easter eggs except me and

George.  We sat at the table drinking coffee and watching the kids through the patio door.  They ran around

in the backyard with their baskets while Opal took pictures and shouted directions at them.  She wore white 

shorts and sandals and her legs were slim and brown.  She kept her long, natural fingernails painted red and

 she wore three gold chain necklaces and two diamond dinner rings, one on each hand.

     “Here’s one over here!” she had said, pointing to an egg they’d missed.  She’d laughed and run around 

in circles after her grandchildren.  She’d always loved them and seemed happy to be with them, but

otherwise it was hard to tell if she was ever happy any other time.  I had noticed George watching Opal, his

eyes moist, curious.

     “How did you meet Opal, George?” I’d asked. 

 
            “It was 1949,” he said.  “I was stationed at Perrin Air Force Base in Sherman, Texas.  Me and my 

buddy used to cruise the streets in his 1948 Ford looking for girls to pick up when we got weekend 

passes.”  I raised my eyebrows.

     “Did you have much luck?”

     “Mostly one-night-stands,” he said.  “But we were pretty lonely, so we kept trying.  We’d take girls to

 dinner and out dancing at the officer's club.”

     “I’ll bet those naive girls really swooned at you guys in your uniforms,” I said.

     “Sure they did,” George said, straightening up in his chair and smoothing his hair back.  “My hair was

 dark then, and I had a good build on me.”  He’d glanced over his shoulder at Opal in the backyard, then in

 her late fifties.  “I was pretty lonely, but I just wanted to fool around with most girls until I met Opal.”

     “She stole your heart?” I asked.  George let his shoulders slump, let his breath whoosh out between his

 lips, and shook his head from side to side.

      “I was a goner from the minute I saw her standing on the corner in downtown Sherman,” he said.  “She 

and her friend were waiting for the bus.  She had the blondest hair I’d ever seen, all curly and wavy like 

sunbeams around her face.”  George looked over his shoulder at Opal in the backyard again, and then 

turned back at me.  “She still looks good now, but then she was built like a brick out-house!  She wore these

 real tight peddle-pushers and a white, sleeveless blouse tied up in a knot at her waist.  She was leaning

 against the lamp post, standing on one foot in her high heels with her hand on her hip.”  George seemed to 

get lost in the memory, so I prompted him.

     “What did you do?”

     “We cruised past real slow.  I said to my buddy, ‘Whoooo-hoooo!  I call the blonde.  She had her back

 to me.  Her friend was looking the other way, too, so they didn’t see us coming.  I leaned my elbow out the 

window and said, ‘You girls need a ride?’”

      George grinned at the memory of that smooth move and took a few sips of his coffee.  He sighed.

      “That happened in April, 1948.  We went out dancing and drinking every night. She knew how to

 Jitterbug, and that sent me.  By July, we found out she was pregnant, so we got married.  But I would have

 married her anyway.  I loved Opal.  She got a hold on my heart the first time she looked at me with those

 blue eyes.”

     Sitting in the dining room that day, I could see that Opal still had some mysterious hold over George even 

though they’d been divorced for so many years.  I couldn’t understand why.  No one ever understood why. 

 

Opal certainly didn’t love George.  Since the divorce, she tolerated him at family gatherings, but occasionally

 gave him a tongue lashing that would leave scars on an I-beam.  One Christmas Eve came to mind.  

      It was the year Santa brought John his two-wheeler.  Everyone had finished eating a roast beef and 

mashed potato dinner.  I’d put the kids to bed after our traditional reading of The Night Before Christmas.

Steve had waited until the last minute to assemble John’s bike, so he sat in the living room putting it together 

in the middle of the floor.  Opal helped me clean up in the kitchen.  Opal cleared the table while I washed 

the dishes.  George still sat there still eating.  He had always been a slow eater.

     “I have to chew my food more than most people,” he had said, this comment was one he made regularly 

when he found himself the last diner at the table.

     "Good God, George!  Can't you do anything right?" Opal had said.  “I swear!  You can’t even chew

your food right!”  Then she had stormed out telling me, “I’m sorry.  I just can’t stand to be around him right 

now.”  I stood there stunned, my hands dangling in the warm wash water.  Steve jumped up and followed 

her out.  George just kept on chewing.  When he’d swallowed the bite he had been chewing, he set his fork 

down and turned to me.

       "She always acts that way,” he’d said.  “She hates me.”  

     “Wow.  That was mean,” I said.  “I’m sorry that happened.”

     “Phew!  That’s nothing,” George said.  “I guess it’s Christmas that sets her off.  That’s when she left me

 you know,” he said.  I dried my hands and sat down at the table with George. 

 

     “What happened?  Why does she hate you?”

     George had picked up his napkin, dabbed his lips, and folded it neatly.  As he spoke, he laid it on the

 table next to his plate and ran his finger up and down the crease as though his finger were a needle and the

 napkin an LP record with the memory recorded on it.

     “I couldn’t fit her desires for material things into the budget of a Major-Sergeant,” he said.  “The 

Christmas of 1965 she had her eye on a Grundig hi-fi.  She begged me to buy it.  When I told her I couldn’t,

 she let me have it.

     ‘“I did not marry you so I could spend my life living in this Air Force base dump housing, and I'll be

 damned if I'll wait for an incompetent fool like you to finally do something with his life, so that I can have

 what I want,’ she told me.  Then she said,‘I'm going out.  I'm sick of this dump.  I'm sick of this kid, and I'm

 sick of you.’  She stormed out of the house just like she did tonight.  I’ll never forget it.  Her temper was 

real bad.  She went to the officer's club looking for a little fun.  One of my buddies told me he saw her there

 that night.  I guess she was looking for another, higher-ranking officer who could buy her the things she

 wanted and make her happy.”

     As he finished telling me the story of the night Opal left him, George picked up the napkin from the table 

and set it in his lap, smoothing it down with both hands. 

 

     “Steve tells me she spent lots of time at the officer’s club,” I said.  “He remembers being locked in his 

room, watching her leave from his window, crying for her to come back.”

     “I’m really sorry about that for his sake,” George said.  “After that Christmas, I didn’t want to stay home

 anymore, but I didn’t really want to leave her and Steve.  So, I took tours of duty every time I could.  I 

didn’t know how she treated him until one night when I came home unexpectedly from a tour.”

     “What happened?” I asked.

     “When I got home, it was late, after dark.  I just decided to go on to the house and not call first.  I 

wanted to surprise everybody.  When I got there, the front porch light was on and the door was locked.  I 

never took my keys with me on tours.  I didn’t want to lose them, so I knocked.  When nobody came to 

the door, I peered into the widow.  There was a light on, so I could see Stevie.  I guess he was about five.  

He was standing in front of the door like a soldier.  His feet were spread apart in a warrior’s stance.  He 

had his bow and arrow in his hands.  The bow was pulled back and the arrow was aimed at the door.  I 

finally convinced him that I was his daddy and he let me inside.  Of course, later, I found Opal at the 

Officer’s Club.”  

     I’d heard this story from Steve before.  When George told it, it was like an attic door that had been 

closed a long time opened and all the moldy smells floated out.  Opal hadn’t found her officer or happiness, 

ever. Now, riding in the car with George on the way home from Groovy Smoothie and thinking about why

 he had listened to that Beatles song so much, I thought, she broke his heart.  No wonder he thought he 

was going to be sad. 

     After George retired from the Air Force he relocated to San Antonio.  Interestingly, so did Opal.  They

had been living a few blocks from each other ever since.  Neither of them had remarried.  George always 

asked Steve about Opal’s health and well being.  He’d confessed to driving by her house every night before

 sundown to make sure she was home safely.  A few months before, George had called Steve.  After a 

second, Steve had put him on speaker phone. 

     “Say that again,” Steve had said, motioning me into the living room from the kitchen to listen.

     "I called your mother up last night," George said.

     "Why?" Steve asked, incredulously.

     "I asked her if she wanted some company.  Told her I'd come over.  Bring a bottle of Bailey's and we'd 

play some Gin Rummy." 

     “Oh my God!” I said under my breath, cupping my hand over my mouth.  Steve put his finger up to his 

pursed lips, hushing me.

     "So did you go over there?"  Steve asked, sitting up straight in the Lazy Boy and staring at me 

wide-eyed.

     "She wouldn't go for it." George said.

     "Sorry, Dad,” Steve said.  “You know what she's like."  We all knew what she was like and none of us 

understood how a likeable guy like George wound up loving such an unhappy person, even after all these 

years.  But then the more I thought about it, the more I realized George and I had loving unhappy people in 

common.  And then it dawned on me, I also had loving unhappy people in common with my Mom.  Maybe 

George’s love for Opal wasn’t so strange after all.

            After George and I finally got home from the morning’s errands, I decided to spend some time 

making appointments for George and Miss Kitty.  George turned on the History Channel and started 

watching a documentary about Air Force pilots.  I went into my room and closed the door to work.  My 

desk was an antique secretary that had belonged to my grandmother.  I kept it snuggled in the corner.  I sat

 down in front of it on the straw-bottomed, ladder-back chair there, pulling the drop-down writing surface 

open.  The smell of ink and pulp, love and old-age seeped out of its wooden pores and sweet memories of 

Nana creaked out of the walnut-stained cubbies there like the little notes I’d received from her as a child—

handwritten on embroidered paper.  I glanced up at her photo taken at our wedding. Her green-grey eyes 

smiled.  I could hear her saying, “Huh-ho!”  See her tip-toeing through the house toning her calves as she

 walked.  Taste her home-made cheddar cheese bread, it’s crisp, brown edges crunching under my young 

tongue.  Feel the rattle of dice in the Parcheesi cup, a game we played in the afternoons with tea. 

 Remember her last words to me:  “You’re doing a good job of being fair with your children.”  Recall the 

last time I saw her, reading in bed, wearing a robe and hosiery.  Her death had been my first experience with

 grief over the loss of a loved one.  I’d been assigned the task of making calls to all her friends and family.  

 I’d cried so much I’d contracted conjunctivitis, the matter of mortality blinding me.  

     Ebenezer, Sam, and William all crowded in at my feet under the secretary.  I opened the window, letting 

the crisp, fall breeze in from the north.  The blinds rattled like a giant cricket.  Potter hopped up on the desk 

and lay down on a stack of mail.  As he did this, the pile tumbled to the floor and he skittered away to hide 

under the bookshelf, leaving tufts of orange hair suspended in the air.  The big dogs jumped up and skirted 

the room, their heads ducked, crouching.

            “You’re okay,” I said, bending down to pick up the mail.  “Lie down.”  William hadn’t moved a 

muscle.  He lay on his blanket under the secretary unperturbed.  The only sign he was even aware of the

 scuffle, his tired eyes looking up at me.  As I picked up an unopened envelope, I remembered I hadn’t 

checked the mail box for days.

            “Come on guys,” I said, let’s go to the mailbox.

The trip out of the gate and across the street to the mailbox was one of the highlights of the dogs’ day, second only to a ride around the block in the truck and dinner, of course.  Ebenezer and Sam waited just inside the gate, jumping and whining. Their tails wagged like jack-knifing trailers.

“You stay there,” I said, leaving the solar-powered gate cracked open as William and I squeezed out of the gate and walked across the black asphalt to the mailbox.

A small herd of white-tailed deer, twenty or so of them, lounged on the wild-grass pasture between the two houses directly across from ours.  One doe stood up and stiffened her tail. 

“It’s all right lady,” I said, cooing.  The herd didn’t usually scatter when William and I came out to check the mail.  They were used to us.  We fed them deer corn and kept water out in buckets.  Most of the neighbors did.  That summer the herd had fawned nine!  By September though, the fawns had all lost their spots and grown nearly as tall as the does.  I lingered a bit by the mailbox.  William sniffed out all the business that had been going on there since the day before.  I stood in the middle of the street, the mailbox lid gaping open and sifted through the mail.  The sun hung low in the western sky but hadn’t started to set.  There was a letter from the bank.  I slid my finger through the seal to open it.  It was an overdraft notice.

“Shit.  I thought I had enough in that account,” I said, slamming the mailbox lid shut and turning back toward the house.  “Shit!” I said again.  “I shouldn’t even have to check the balance in this account.  Steve should just put the F-ing money in there every month!  Come on!” I said to William.  He put his leg down mid-pee, and tilted his head up at me, questioning the stern tone. 

“I’m sorry, buddy,” I said, bending down to pat the black curls on his head, “I’m not mad at you."  I scooped him up and squeezed back into the gate.  Ebenezer and Sam acted like I’d been gone all day, shoving their heads into my legs.

“Sit!” I said.  They did, but they kept whining.  I didn’t stop to pet or cajole them.  I just kept walking passed them toward the house.  After I’d gone a few feet, they spun around to follow me, bouncing up and down, panting and whining with glee at the tail gate of my truck, hoping for a ride.  “Not today,” I said.  “You stay here.” Ebenezer and Sam knew that command and so they lay down, sighing and grunting.  Then I felt guilty and angry.  My stomach lurched.  I stopped in the middle of the driveway and set William down.  I rolled my neck in a circle trying to make it pop. I pressed on the right side of it at the seventh vertebrae with the middle finger of my left hand.  The three dogs lay there in a row, staring up at me. 

“Damn.  That spot's been in a spasm since I was ten,” I said.  Sam tilted his head trying to understand. 

“I like things under control, guys!” I said. “And things are definitely not under control.”  Ebenezer spoke, sitting up.  When he sat up, so did the other two dogs. 

“Aarrugh!”  Even this, which usually would have made me laugh, didn’t ameliorate the anger I felt rising in me.  I leaned over and gave Ebenezer a full-body hug and rubbed Sam’s ears.

 “I’ll take you for a ride later,” I said, the promise allaying some of my guilt.

In the kitchen, George sat at the dining room table staring at a quarter through his magnifying glass.  My heart raced.  The anger rushing through my ears deafened me.  I slammed the mail down on the counter and opened the fridge.  I had to do something constructive right then.  I had to channel the negative energy into something positive at that very second; otherwise, I would self-destruct or commit murder. 

“This fridge is a mess," I said, an even, steely construct settling in my bones.  “Everything’s a mess!”  I picked up one of the clear plastic storage containers stacked inside and ripped back its blue lid.

"Phew!"  I scrunched my nose against the smell.  "That's dead."

"This is a Florida State Quarter," said George over the magnifying glass.  "I'm collecting these you know."

"Huh?" I said.  I had completely ignored George’s presence in the room. 

"You've told me,” I said absently.  “Are they worth anything?" I asked, trying not to take my feelings out on him and dumping the dead leftovers into the sink. 

"Not yet, but they will be someday.  That's why I'm collecting them all.  I have every one of them now except Tennessee."  He stuck his hand into the plastic cream cheese container where he hoarded the quarters he'd found but hadn't inspected yet and pulled out another one. 

"I never let a quarter get by without checking it first."  He tapped the cover of the spiral bound coin collector's manual he kept on the table alongside the coins and the magnifying glass with the long fingernail on the forefinger of his right hand.  These were the things George had once kept neatly arranged on his coffee table at home with the bills and the coupons.  Too quickly they were finding a home on my kitchen table. 

Great.  I wonder if there are enough quarters there to cover this bounced check, I thought.

"You never know when you're going find one that's worth a bundle."

"You bet, George," I said, pressing my lips together and nodding my head to keep from saying what I was thinking. I stuck my head back into the fridge.  There were at least a dozen containers like the first one, each filled with food in various stages of decay.  I carried them to the sink and began dumping.

What is that? I wondered, holding the last one at arm's length like poisonous gas might leak out.  It was decidedly green and unrecognizable.  I turned on the water to let it warm and flipped on the disposal.  Holding the yellow sponge with the green scrubby backside under the water, I let the water run over my hands as the phrase "Cleanliness is next to Godliness" ran through my head. 

I wiped the brown gravy from the last week's smothered steak off the middle shelf, and scraped at the caked on yellow egg yolk with my thumbnail.  I could feel myself beginning to settle in to a familiar rhythm like rocking back and forth or marching in step.  With every trip to the sink for warm, soapy water, with every swipe that removed a spill, leaving the refrigerator’s glass shelves pristine and shiny, I could feel the tension giving way to the compulsion, as if by picking up and putting away, by emptying and throwing out, by wiping away the stains that could be seen, I could eliminate the ones that couldn’t.  I’d tried to clean up the messiness of my life by cleaning out closets, drawers, cabinets, and refrigerators many times and failed.  Some stains don’t come out. But the spill of this kind of rage compelled me to try again.

As I scrubbed the musty, brown potato dust from the vegetable drawer, I mused about my love of model homes.  There were no signs of real living in them, no newspaper half read and strewn about, no dishes left to dry on the drain, no snotty tissues in the bathroom trash, no hair on the floor, no arguments lingering like bad perfume in the hallways, no mess of any kind, ever.  In my head, I knew the impossibility of achieving that kind of purity in this life.  But the adrenaline rushing through my gut insisted I could accomplish the impossible.

Why can't I let our house be like Rachel and Adhamh’s?  Why can't I let books I’ve read line the hallways in friendly piles, do the dishes when there are none clean left in the cabinets or when someone stops over for tea, laugh about it and say, ‘Oh we spent the whole weekend riding the bike and schlepping around antique stores, so you'll have to wait a sec while I scrounge up a clean glass.’  Why can’t I use the kitchen table like a desk for collecting coupons and bills to pay, leave the latest issue of Texas Highways open there to the last article I read, folded and creased into place, leave only one spot cleared big enough for a plate so I can eat at the table when I want to but, the rest of the time, eat off of my lap in the easy chair in front of the TV.  Why can’t I have friends over, tell them to shove the dog aside and sit in the sag of the afghan-covered sofa to have tea, wrapped in the glow of the relaxation that lives here.

I stood holding the door of the fridge open with my right hand, wiped the beads of sweat from my brow with the back of my left, and planted my fist on my hip.   

“What do you mean why, Bet?” I said, speaking again aloud to myself; it was an annoying habit for those who happen to be in the room with me when I did.  “It’s because you are your father's child.  That’s why.”

This obsession with perfection was an elephant staked in my psyche by one foot. It rocked and walked in endless circles, lifted its trunk now and then to sniff the air for freedom, so conditioned to its restraints that released, it would still remain in its certain, worn circles.  It was somewhere between emptying the bread turned to penicillin into the disposal and scraping a raspberry yogurt spill out of the meat drawer that I understood the “money” problem between Steve and me at a new level. 

The problem isn’t my math; the problem lives in the relationship like these leftovers live in the fridge.  It’s molded.  Expecting love and respect from Steve is like searching for nourishment in these forgotten leftovers.

 The fridge was finally clean as a sterile vial.  I shut the door and remembered the mail.  I turned around and finished sorting through it over the trash can.  I found a pre-approved credit card application, a catalog, a recipe card with a plea for a listing from the local realtor, and a jury summons.

“Perfect,” I said, muttering.  I let the trash can lid slam shut and slapped the envelope onto the bar.  George looked up over his magnifying glass.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I got a jury summons, George.  Something else I don’t have time to do right now,” I said. I began to pace.

“Can I help?” he asked.  The offer took me off guard.  I stopped pacing and stood still.  This essential difference between George and his son baffled me.  Neither genetics nor environment had rubbed this kindness off on Steve.  Of course, there was nothing George could do for me, but the fact that he wanted to do something was endearing.  I walked across the kitchen and kissed him on the top of his head.

“You’re a good egg, George,” I said.  And just for that, I’m going make you one for supper.  You want it scrambled or fried?”

“Scrambled, please, with toast and mayo,” he said, stuffing a handful of quarters into his pocket and snapping the lid on the cream cheese container. “No luck today,” he said, shrugging.

“There is something you can do to help me, if you will,” I said from the stove.

“Anything for you, Bet,” George said perking up.

“You can take a shower, shave, and change into some clean clothes for me.”

“I can do that for you.”  George said, beaming.  “I don’t mean to be a burden, but I know I am, so anything that makes you happy makes me happy.”  To my surprise, he stood up right then and pushed in his chair.  “I’ll shower now and have my egg later.”

 Just as George padded off to the shower, the phone rang.  It was Rachel.

“How’s it going over there?” she asked. “You feel any better?”

“Jesus!  I just got a jury summons in the mail.  Do you think God has it in for me?” I half-screeched into the phone.

Rachel laughed.  “Yeah, that’s probably it.  You know what a bad girl you’ve been.”

“I don’t have time for this,” I said.  “And I got a non-sufficient funds notice!”

“Uh oh!  That’s upsetting.”

“No kidding.  Steve didn’t make a deposit again! Why do I have to beg?”

“You don’t.  That’s why you got your job.  Right?”

“Right.  If I had time to do it.  I’ve just been spending all my time with George.”

“Speaking of George, when we talked this morning, you didn’t finish telling me what happened at the bank.”

“What a zoo!  He hit on Victoria Grey!” I cupped my hand over my mouth and sneaked into the hallway.  Listening at the bathroom door, I heard the shower water running, so I relaxed a little. “I thought I was going to die.  You know that’ll be all over town.”

Rachel laughed out loud.  We both did.  Talking to Rachel about things was one of the only ways I’d survived for years.  Her sense of humor and quiet wisdom were a staple of sanity.

“Did you get the checking account mess straightened out?” she asked.

“Yes, but  I have to get to work canceling credit cards.  We’ve got to get to his house to pick up his files.  Wait.  I don’t mean files.  I mean piles of papers, stacks and stacks of papers.”

“You’re going to pull your hair out before this is over!”  Rachel said, laughing.  “And I’m going to split a gut.  Can you have lunch tomorrow?”

“No.  I have to take George to his MRI appointment.  Sorry,” I said.  “The pulmonary doc wants to know how his lungs are doing.  You know he had lung cancer, right?”

“No.  When was that?”

“Years ago, but now he’s short of breath and he still smokes!  Anyway, I hear Steve pulling into the driveway.  He and I are going to have a ‘Come to Jesus’ talk.  I’ll call you later.”

Waiting for Steve to come into the house, my mind searched for the perfect words with which to approach him about the bounced check, but I couldn’t find them.  I knew the conversation we would have as well as if they were lines of a play we’d rehearsed a thousand times.  I wanted to change the dialogue, somehow give it a happy ending, but I couldn’t think of a way. So when Steve breezed through the kitchen, brief case in hand and kissed the back of my head I just said it.     

“I bounced a check.”  Steve stopped kissing my head and set his briefcase on the counter.  He pulled his laptop out of its case.  He pulled his shoulders back and set them down again, sticking his neck out like a strutting rooster.

“What happened to the money I gave you?” he said, frowning.  “I don’t know what you could possibly be spending it all on.  I pay all the bills,” he said, the pitch of his voice rising. 

“You simply refuse to acknowledge that I have legitimate living expenses beyond the kind that come in the form of a bill in the mail,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.  “I had to go to the chiropractor, remember?  That spasm in my back?”

“Yeah, I told you trying to rebuild that rock wall would strain your back but you wouldn’t listen to me.”

“I can’t help it if my arthritis flared up,” I said.  “I don’t like feeling old and crippled so I do things.  I tried hot baths and warm compresses first.” 

“Well we can’t afford a chiropractor,” he said, flatly.

 “I paid the house sitter this month for the trip to Cozumel, too?  Remember that trip?  You wanted to scuba dive?”

“That was the first trip I’d taken in a year!” Steve said, raising his voice.

“If we can afford to spend a few days in Cozumel so you can scuba dive, I should be able to see the chiropractor when I need to.”

“Well you wouldn’t need to if you’d listen to me!”

“I should be able to decide when and how to use the household money.  I’m a grown up,” I said.  I turned to stare out the kitchen window, trying to keep myself calm.  A cardinal landed on the feeder next to the window.    

“I just don’t know where all that money goes,” said Steve, protesting as though he hadn’t heard a word I’d said.  Then he walked out the back door, slamming it shut.  I heard blood rushing in my ears.

“Asshole!” I yelled.  “I’ve had it with you.” The cardinal flipped off the feeder so fast it fell to the ground, spilling seed all over the patio.  I stomped to my room and slammed the door shut.  I threw myself on the bed face down, bumping my forehead on something hard in the bed.  “Ouch!  What is that?”  It was the journal.  After a few more minutes of pouting, I leaned back on a pillow and read the journal.

September 30, 1960

Saturdays are for chores.  Daddy says “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”  That’s why he gets me up early to do my chores.  He smacks his hand against my door and says “Get up!  You gonna sleep all day?”  Chores are vacuuming, dusting, and sweeping.  Then I have to scrub the bathrooms.   I only really hate doing one thing.  That’s picking up the yucky hair that sticks to the tile in Daddy’s shower! Jules says that’s disgusting!  She’s my best friend.  I love her and she loves me.  I tell her everything, even things I don’t tell Mama.  I love when Jules spends the night.  Sometimes we play lovers.  We cuddle and kiss.  She likes to touch me on my privates.  I like the way that feels.  Mama says girls aren’t supposed to like girls that way.  Girls are supposed to like boys, but not until they’re married.  But I don’t want to marry a boy.  I want to marry Jules. 

Making Room for George, Chapter Eleven

Every day in the month of August.  That’s how many days Felicia had taken George to the bank for loans.  Five thousand, five hundred dollars later, I sat with George in front of Victoria Grey, the bank officer at Cisco Bank and Trust, while she filled out the necessary paperwork.

            “Just sign here, Ms. Kinders,” she said, passing George’s new checking account signature card to me.  Victoria glanced quickly at George, then at me as she handed me the pen with a little sideways grit of her teeth and just the slightest shake of her head that said, this is such a shame, really such a shame. 

Ms. Grey had worked in this small town bank and trust for twenty-five years, and she had seen it all:  husbands in mid-life crisis cleaning out their life's savings the day before they filed for divorce; Mexican illegal immigrants who came in small groups with one who could speak enough English to buy a cashier's check so they could send their wages to their families in Mexico; and the small contractors for whom they worked drawing out enough petty cash to pay them.  If you wanted to know what was going on in Limestone Creek, Victoria Grey was the person to ask. Her porcelain skin remained brown-spot free underneath an immaculate make-up job.  She wore a light base make-up, some blush, drawn-on brows, and lined lips covered in All Day Red.   The perfection of her face suggested that she spent a half an hour every morning getting this look and ten minutes at every break touching it up. 

“Excuse me while I get this account set up in the system,” she said, turning to work at her computer.

            I sat there wondering how George could have let this happen.  This miserly hoarder, who hid his cash under the carpet and hadn’t thrown anything away for years, had taken Felicia to the bank for cash every day in August—every day.

How did she make him do that?  He said he gave her loans, but who needs a loan every day?  I rifled through memories of conversations about money I’d had with George over the years.  I recalled one conversation in particular.  It had happened one Christmas Eve after a family dinner. 

“Some people go to church on Christmas Eve,” George said.  “But not me.  I don’t go to church.”

“Me neither,” I said.  I remembered this moment because I’d bonded with George over our shared beliefs.

“I believe in God, you know,” he said.  “But I don’t go to church because they always want my money.”

“I believe in God, too,” I said.  “But I think Christian’s have seriously misunderstood what their teacher had to say.”

“The Holy Wars, the Spanish Inquisition, the Salem Witch Trials.”  George named the historical periods, counting each with an emphatic flick of a finger held in the air.  “All that they did in the name of God.”

“More like in the name of fear or hate,” I said.

“I’m just not going to give my hard-earned money away to anybody,” George said.  “Preachers say God likes that, but I think it’s dumb.” 

“Giving money away doesn’t automatically make a person better,” I said. 

“Preachers say that it helps save the soul of the giver, keeps a man out of hell.

But I don’t believe it.” 

Remembering that conversation, I reasoned that George didn’t consider generosity his ticket to heaven.  So that couldn’t have been the reason he’d given her the loans.  Maybe he just took her at her word, I thought.  Felecia said she needed the money.  She had promised to pay him back.  He had the signed IOU’s from her.  Period.  No problem.  No.  That didn’t sit right either.  It was too rational, too linear.   They must have been having sex.  Felicia does have a pimp, and men, even old ones, have been known to think with their dicks.  It didn’t really matter which line of thinking had made George give Felicia five thousand bucks.  I thought he was nuts for it and it made me wonder if that kind of insanity was genetic.

Even Steve, a man I knew loved his money more than God, had made some unfounded loans and unlikely alliances.  One particular alliance he’d made with a deadbeat acquaintance came to mind.  I gritted my teeth as I thought about it.

He’d befriended Eddie Blackstone, a veritable money-pit who had a therapeutic massage practice in the same business complex as Steve.  Steve had been having an excruciating back spasm for days so he’d been leaning forward a little as he walked, his left hand wrapped around his lower back and side like an ace bandage. 

“What’s up with the back?”  Eddie had asked at the mailboxes one day.

“Wrenched it somehow.  Hurts like hell,” Steve had answered, reaching into the mailbox. 

“You ought to let me work the kink out of that for you,” Eddie had said.

So Steve had gone to Eddie’s office that afternoon for a deep-tissue massage.  The first muscle melt had hooked him.  He’d come home raving about this guy he’d met who knew how to get the tension he carried in his body out.  No matter how many glasses of red wine Steve drank between five and midnight, he couldn’t relax.  So finding Eddie’s magic hands became Steve’s remedy for stress.  I’d thought the fact that he’d found someone to help him relax was great.  I loved having massage myself and I thought anything that helped Steve relax had to be good for us, too.  But, as usual, Steve went overboard in his own favor and treated himself to massage with Eddie three times a week. 

Well there goes two hundred bucks “we can’t afford,” I thought.  When I’d mentioned it to Steve, he’d only protested.

“I can’t work with a back spasm.”  Then one day, he told me Eddie’s approached him for a loan.

 “Eddie can’t pay his rent.  Says he’s going to lose his space,” Steve said.

“We can’t let that happen, can we?” I said, knowing what was coming next.   Steve’s mind feasted on opportunities like this one. 

“I think I’ve figured out how to make this work for me,” Steve said, tapping the can of dipping tobacco on its edge.  He opened it, and stuffed a pinch of the poison into his mouth.

“God I hate the smell of that stuff,” I said.

“Want some?” he asked, shoving the can under my nose. 

“No!  Prick,” I said, backing away, fanning the air.  “I hope you’re not going to give that loser any money,” I said.  I didn’t like Eddie for reasons I hadn’t shared with Steve.  I didn’t like him, but I felt a sickening attraction to him that both confused and excited me. 

I’d had a painful back spasm so Steve had set up a massage appointment with Eddie for me.  Everything had gone normally enough for the first half-hour.  I loved how Eddie’s hands felt on my skin.  I hadn’t had many male massage therapists work on me, but of the ones who had, Eddie’s hands felt the most sensual.  I relaxed into the massage even fantasized about how being with Eddie might feel.  Then he started massaging the ham strings of my inner thighs.

“You’re in great shape,” he said.  “I can see why Steve brings it home.”  I stiffened.  The comment was out of line, but I felt flattered and decided to let it go.  Besides, what he was doing felt good, really good.  Then he lifted the sheet that draped my legs and pulled it taught between them, exposing both of my legs and hips.  I grabbed the sheet to keep it from exposing my breasts.

“Oops!  Sorry.  That would have been ‘bad’” Eddie said with innuendo that gave me chills.  “You ever get tired of your old man, just let me know.” 

I’d let him finish the massage, but afterward I got dressed as fast as I could, thinking the whole time about whether or not I’d given him some unintentional signal that had prompted his advances.  Maybe he can read minds, I thought.

As I left, Eddie handed me his card and said, “My cell number’s on the back.  I’ve got what you need to keep your back relaxed.  Call me anytime.  Steve doesn’t have to know.”  

I didn’t tell Steve what happened.  In fact, I’d never told anyone because even if I hadn’t purposefully seduced him, I thought somehow, he must have heard what I had been thinking.  I felt ashamed and guilty.

      “I’ll tell you what, my man I said,” Steve said, pulling himself up onto the kitchen counter, grinning.  “I 

have an empty office space across the hall.  How about you set up your massage table in there and leave it?   

You can work on me when I need it, and see your other clients when I don’t.  Hell, you don’t even have to 

pay rent.  It’ll be a trade deal I told him,” Steve had said, laughing.  “That’s sweet right?” 

Great, I thought.  Now I get to see Eddie more often. 

“You love to play the high roller don’t you, Babe?” I said, wiping the counter around him.  I admired the 

wheeler-dealer in Steve.  He always seemed to come out on top in the deal.  I had no idea how he did it.   

Watching him operate fascinated me. 

     “Yep.  And having Eddie’s hands at my disposal gives me one more commodity to trade.  Matter of fact, 

one of my poker buddies has been complaining of a stiff neck.  Called him this afternoon.  'I’ve got a guy 

who can take care of that stiff neck for you,' I said.  'He works for me now.  Let me set you up.  You’ll feel 

like a new man!  It’s my treat.'  I love it.  I get to give a favor that didn’t cost me a penny.  Damn, I’m 

good!” 

     “I’m sure Eddie’s lifestyle will keep him broke and coming back to you for help,” I said, knowing that 

Steve loved creating this kind of dependency; it kept people where he wanted them—convinced they 

needed him.

     As we finished George's business at the bank, he stood up to shake hands with Victoria. 

     "It was a pleasure to meet you Mr. Kinders," she said. 

     "My pleasure, indeed," said George with a sly smile, keeping hold of her thin hand.  "By the way, do you 

know how to do the Texas Two Step?"  Victoria was beautiful fifty-something year old.  I should have 

known George would flirt with her.  Victoria giggled, gave me an uneasy glance, shifting her weight onto her 

right hip and wriggling her hand away from George.

      "I don't believe I do," she said, fingering the tiny, gold cross necklace that dangled at her collar bone.   

She crossed her left arm under her breasts as if to simultaneously protect and purify herself.

     "I'm a good dancer, you know," he said.  "I can teach you one of these days if you'd like."

     "Oh thank you."  Victoria blushed, looking down at her fingernails.  "That might be very nice, Mr.   

Kinders."  She looked at Bet with a questioning shrug of her left shoulder.

     

     "George.  You can call me George."

     "Okay then, George,” she said.  Victoria folded her prim hands together at her midsection and bowed a 

tiny bow from the waist with a nod.  George picked up his khaki hat from her desk and set it carefully on his 

head, tapping it once with the middle finger of his right hand.  He gave Victoria a wink and a dapper nod, 

stuck both hands into his polyester jean pockets, and turned to walk out the door.

  

     Bloody Marys, I thought as we stepped out into the sun.  I couldn't believe what I’d just witnessed.   

What an incorrigible flirt!  We were still untying the knots of his last romantic fiasco, and he was already 

hitching up to the post for the next one.  At least Victoria Grey has a job instead of a pimp, I thought.  

     The vision of a tall, sweaty pitcher of thick, red juice turned to ambrosia with a perfect blend of celery 

salt, black pepper, Tabasco, lime juice, and Smirnoff's appeared in my mind.  I could see the stalk of celery 

craning its neck out of the pitcher's mouth, see its fragile leaves quivering in the pool-side breeze, and hear 

the clink of ice in my glass.  I never quite knew when the compulsion to drink would hit me, but every now 

and then, the fantasy of an elegant drink just to take the edge off crept in and clouded my thinking like yellow

algae in a swimming pool.  I hadn't been checking my pool for chlorine and pH levels lately, so the blight had 

easily set in. Lately, I'd had my mind on George, on fixing him, getting his life straightened out. It felt like a 

carjacker had pulled up beside me at this intersection of my life and snatched me out of my vehicle.

      I’d better pay attention to my own life, I thought.  I gave up alcohol but I didn’t give up being 

human.  I need a fix!  Got it.  A strawberry-banana smoothie will work.  Low fat, soy, safe, comfort 

food for four bucks and some change!   MY mind relaxed a little given this consolation cookie.  I knew I 

could sip on that sweet, cold concoction and walk the edge of intoxication guilt and hangover free.  I swung 

the truck into the parking lot of the Groovy Smoothie and hopped out.  

      "We'll be home in a minute, but I want to stop in for a smoothie.  You want one?"

     "I'm not hungry," George said, pouting.

     "Well, you need to eat, George.  You're too skinny. "
             

     "It's my teeth," he frowned.  "I can’t chew."  He tapped his right index finger on the side of his jaw like a 

pointer indicating the location of the problem.

     "I know, George, but you don't have to chew a smoothie," I said.  This was like having a child who 

wouldn't eat veggies. 

     "You'll like it.  I promise."  He clamped his mouth shut into a pout, dropped his right shoulder and hung 

his head a little, stuck his chin out, and gave me a glare. 

     “Come on, George.  Give it a try," I insisted, shutting the truck door.  Without a word, George followed.

Inside, George wandered around glancing through magazines.  The one-room place was painted neon lime 

green and sixties music played from a CD player in the corner.  Newspapers lay about in sections on the 

retrofitted furniture.  A guy sat at the computer bar checking his email, eating a sandwich.  George 

wandered up behind him and peered over his shoulder.  I dug into my purse for coins to pay for the 

smoothies.  Doing that made me think about money again and how I didn’t have any.  All this running

around and caring for George was keeping me from selling Children's Chatter ads.  While Janie swirled 

strawberries around in the blender, I self-flagellated. 

  

     I’ve volunteered again, I thought, sighing.  I have to stop volunteering if I’m ever going to make 

any money.  I felt disgusted with myself.  I handed Janie three dollar bills and three dollars in change, 

remembering a quote from an article I’d read recently: Homemaking is an honored profession, and 

volunteerism is the backbone of the country. 

     Birdseed, I thought.  That’s what everybody says, but they don’t put any money where their mouths 

are, especially my husband!  I handed George his smoothie and flopped down on the red corduroy sofa in 

the front of the room facing the street. 

     “Make yourself at home, George,” I said.  “I’m just going to sit here and cool off a while.”   I took a

long drag on the straw, sucking the smooth, creamy, semi-liquid into my mouth while I dialed Rachel on my 

cell.

     “Compassion opens my heart but it also confuses my boundaries,” I said when she answered.  “I don’t 

know when to stop caring for others so that I can care for myself,” I said without taking a breath.  Rachel 

was used to this kind of ranting from me.

     “I’m listening,” she said calmly.

    “I know I need to earn a living.  To become self-supporting.  To get rid of these resentments I have 

toward Steve.  I know it.  But care-giving has been my life’s work. I’ve bathed kids, cleaned 

bathrooms, done the laundry, and attended teacher-parent conferences.  I’ve been present for every chaotic 

episode of panic or despair.  I’ve bought the groceries, pulled weeds, helped with homework, and picked 

up the cleaning.  I’ve cleaned out closets, wiped up vomit, house-broken the dogs, and watched kid's ball 

games. It’s what I wanted to do.  I volunteered.  But it was work I was doing, right? Not play!”  Hot tears 

filled my eyes.  Mucous thickened in my throat.

“Right,” Rachel said.  “It just wasn’t work that paid money.”

“Oh my God!  That hit me so hard just now.  I had to dig through my wallet for change to pay for a smoothie!  I’m so angry!”  

“The predominant mindset of Western culture may tout the value of homemaking and volunteerism Bet, but 

the truth remains that in that same mindset, any work done without pay isn’t really work, isn’t really

 important.  Women have gotten the message:  ‘You’re nothing if you are not earning money.’  They say they

 honor motherhood, but it’s not true.”   

     Rachel finished her rant just as the brass bell hanging above the glass door tinkled.  A short, fat man I 

didn’t recognize waddled in.  I looked at the counter where George stood chatting with Janie.  She smiled 

and nodded at him, hooking her straight, blonde hair behind her left ear.  Her nose ring sparkled in the light. 

George turned to greet the man as he approached the counter and they shook hands.  He seemed busy

 making friends. 

    

     “Well women's liberation may have improved equality for women in the work-place,” I said, standing up.   

     “But it hasn’t done a damn thing for women in the work-at-home-place as far as I’m concerned.”  I had 

to pace.

     “No.  We’re all still liberating ourselves one episode at a time,” said Rachel.

     “I may not have marched in the sixties, but I’ve certainly marched for my own liberation.”

     “Yes you have.  And you’re doing it again right now.  This situation with George is just a kink.  It’ll pass 

and you’ll keep working your plan.”  I didn’t even hear Rachel’s reassurance.  My mind swirled with the 

wreckage of my past.  I thought about all the part-time jobs I’d taken over the years.  I’d sold natural skin 

care products at house parties, demonstrated cookware at the local grocery store, organized other people’s 

cluttered closets and garages, and substitute taught. But over and over again, instead of keeping a job, I’d 

caved in to the demands of having a family, unwilling to do the juggling act between staying home with a sick 

child and earning seven bucks an hour. 

     “Jobs don’t stick with me because working at home is my career,” I said.  “I love being at home, taking 

care of whatever needs my attention.”  The tears streamed down my face as I dug in my purse for a tissue. 

     “You’re a good person, Bet.  The work you do is important and I support you in it whether you choose 

to work at home or work for someone else for pay.  I support all women in their work choices.”   

     “And I want to be here for George, too” I said.  “I feel sure about what feels good to me, about what’s 

right for me until I get carried away on the tail wind of another argument with Steve over money.  But having 

to dig through my purse for change to pay for my smoothie really got to me.”  I sniffled and blew my nose.   

    “When I get angry like this, everything gets all blurry.”

     “I know.  I know.  You’re just tired.  It’s been a wild few days.  You’ll get your perspective again.   

Listen, George needs you right now.  It’s good you can help him.  Just remember to take care of yourself, 

too.”

     “No kidding George needs me.  He definitely needs someone,” I said, switching gears.  “You won’t 

believe how much money he loaned Felicia!”